


Dating Naked

by ruebellab



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Attempt at Humor, Eventual Smut, F/M, References to Canon, Romance, dating show, it's a ridiculous premise but it's really evolved into a proper story
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-14
Updated: 2017-07-20
Packaged: 2018-04-04 07:30:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 65,815
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4129728
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ruebellab/pseuds/ruebellab
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Good girl Sansa Stark wants to break out of her shell, she's looking for love and it's time to do something radical. With five days in the Summer Isles and three naked dates, will she find it?</p><p>[Inspired by the VH1 program 'Dating Naked']</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Just to be clear - if you're here for the Jaime/Brienne, rest assured that is a legit tag. This is primarily sansan, but JB have their own povs/story line that is M rated and shippy. Enjoy!

Sansa arrives in the morning.  
  
The cabins are beautiful - with high, vaulted ceilings, dark wood and fresh white linens. Her room smells like coconut and hibiscus and as she sets her case neatly at the foot of the bed and crosses the room to open the large double doors that lead out onto a wraparound deck, a warm salt-sun ocean breeze flows in from the balcony.  
  
As many as thirty cabins line the picturesque beach on Omboru’s northern coastline, connected to a large central hall by a network of boardwalks that crisscross through the jungle.  
  
It had been quite the first impression, leaving the airport at White Harbour under a blanket of summer snow and arriving here.  
  
She can’t help the little smile that sets on her lips, as she looks out onto the tree lined path that leads down to the water. It’s beautiful here - if not a little too warm, Sansa is a northern girl after all - but the endless ocean view seems freeing somehow, and isn’t that exactly what she had wanted?  
  
Leaning out onto the railing of the balcony, Sansa watches as a group of guys her age run past, stopping at the far end of the beach with a net and volleyball. Even from this distance she can see the way their bare muscled chests and arms move golden, bronze and copper in the sunshine, and she looks her fill.  
  
Maybe it’ll be one of them?  
  
She certainly wouldn’t complain if it were, that’s for sure. Sansa isn’t completely shallow, to catch her interest he’ll have to be kind and gentle, brave too - but if she’s going to go on a blind date, a _naked_ blind date, then she won’t complain if he’s got a body like one of those boys and a face to match.  
  
She can feel her cheeks redden at the thought of what she’s about to do and the little smile returns. _Dating naked_ \- what a ridiculous idea.

  
-

  
The first time Sansa had heard of the idea she’d come home to find her sister Arya and boyfriend Gendry watching late night CRTV.  
  
“What in the name of the Seven are you watching?” Sansa had said, thankful it was only the people on tv she had found naked - _this_ time.  
  
Arya and Gendry were snuggled deep into the plush sofa that took up a good deal of the living space in Sansa’s little apartment. There were two large wolf-like dogs, curled together on the rug at their feet, Nymeria and Lady, who belonged to the sisters.  
  
Sansa had moved to the city two years ago to start college, and had taken the rental with her friend Jeyne. At the end of their second semester, Jeyne had gone back up north with a boyfriend and though Sansa had planned to look for a new roommate, her sister Arya, freshly graduated from high school, had appeared on her doorstep begging to take the empty room.  
  
There had been a time, as girls, that the sisters had not been friends - but now that they were grown, their childish spats had turned into kindhearted teasing. They were very different people, true - Arya had always been wild and adventuresome, in contrast to Sansa’s sweet and sensible nature but so long as Arya paid her half, Sansa didn’t mind sharing and it had only brought the girls closer.  
  
“Oh come on, Sanny - it’s just for fun.” Arya had said. “They just get a bunch of young people to take their clothes off and go on dates. And they blur everything out anyway - it’s not half as bad as what Uncle Petyr films.”  
  
They had known their Aunt Lysa’s husband was a film producer - but until becoming adults, Sansa, Arya and the other Stark children had never known exactly what kind of movies Petyr made.  
  
“Don’t remind me,” Sansa shuddered “He used to tell me all the time I’d be perfect for the camera, how much he’d love to make me a star.”  
  
“Uncle Pervert is a creep and I’ll set Nymeria on him if he ever says another word to you. But this is nothing like that, it’s hilarious.” Arya had said finitely, reassuringly. “Look - they’re gonna make these two go four by fouring.”  
  
She had pointed at the tv again and Sansa had suspected that her little sister was trying to distract her from thoughts of their uncle’s unseemly attention. Arya was often blunt, but Sansa appreciated the gesture all the same.  
  
Sansa had looked, and seen a young attractive couple hop onto the seat of an ATV, blushing and laughing at the sudden proximity. They had hollered excitedly speeding off down a jungle path, bumping all the way.  
  
Arya had laughed too, “oh he’s so gonna get a boner with her on his lap.”  
  
Gendry snorted, “Yeah right, I’ll be shocked if that guy doesn’t lose one of his nuts first, look at how rough that track is.”  
  
Sansa had been a little shocked at this - she wasn’t entirely sheltered, but this was hardly her idea of entertainment, what happened to the dating shows she remembered watching as a kid? Had long walks on the beach become just a bumpy ride with someone’s man-thing poking your bottom?  
  
“So that’s it,” she had asked, “you just watch these two make naked fools of themselves?”  
  
“Pretty much,” Gendry said.  
  
“Well yeah - but it’s still a dating show, some people actually seem to hit it off.”  
  
“Really?” Sansa was hardly the sort of person to find herself uninhibited very often, but she had to admit, there was something strangely thrilling about the idea. “Would you ever… you know?”  
  
“Get naked on tv?” Arya had laughed. “Sure, don’t you think you could really get to know someone when you’ve let go of all your inhibitions? I mean you’re naked - what’s there to hide behind? And plus,” she said, grinning at her boyfriend, “I do have a smokin’ bod.”  
  
As Sansa had left the room, she had tried to close her ears to the sounds of Gendry appreciating Arya’s _smokin bod_.  
  
But the idea had stuck with her.  
  
It was the end of her second year of college, and she had completed her exams without a hitch, she was responsible, she was organised - school, work, family and friends, everything was falling into place, fitting exactly where she wanted it to.  
  
And while she was happy - there was still something missing. Truthfully, Sansa would have liked to find love, and after a string of unsuccessful dates, it felt like time to do something radical. Summer had come to Westeros, and she too was ready to break free.

  
-

  
A small gust of wind pulls a strand of long copper hair loose from behind her ear, and Sansa tucks it back into place, breathing in deeply. The air is warm and sweet and while she hasn’t actually got to the main event, she’s already feeling like this is exactly what she needs.  
  
From somewhere in the room behind her, Sansa can hear the soft tinkle of her mobile text alert, and she goes to retrieve it, toeing off her sandals and flopping gracefully onto the bed to read the message.  
  
_Naked yet?_  
  
It’s Arya, blunt as ever.  
  
Another message appears before Sansa can reply.  
  
_I know you landed an hour ago._  
  
And another.  
  
_And if you don’t call me pronto I’ll be forced to assume your plane crashed and have no choice but to tell Mum and Dad where you went._  
  
Sansa dials her sister’s number and the line barely has a chance to ring before Arya answers, repeating her question.  
  
“Soooo,” she says, “naked yet?”  
  
“No.”  
  
“Seen any naked boys yet?”  
  
“Arya, no. The director’s assistant just gave me a filming schedule and a map. My first date won’t be until this afternoon.”  
  
Just the thought of it makes her blush a little, remembering the boys out on the beach.  
  
“Hey you know what Mum said when I told her you were going out to the Summer Isles for a few days? She said look out for Uncle Pervert - apparently he’s filming out there this weekend and I looked it up Sanny, ever heard of _Isles Gone Wild_?”  
  
“Eew! That party show where the girls get drunk and lift their shirts -“  
  
Arya clears her throat and Sansa can only imagine the pointed look her little sister is directing through the phone.  
  
“And you’ll be doing what exactly…”  
  
“This is different, it’s not like I’ll be drunk.”  
  
“Oh right, of course, it’s much more ladylike,” Arya laughs. “Oh and Mum said to have a good time, call her when you get home and not to forget the sunblock.”  
  
“Arya! You didn’t _tell_ her did you?”  
  
“No I didn’t _tell_ her, Sansa. Gods, they’re gonna know about it eventually - are you sure you’re really up for this?”  
  
Sansa lays back, and stares up at the high ceiling, watching the fan above her bed spin dizzying circles. She takes a breath.  
  
“Arya, please, don’t spoil this for me. I know it’s not my usual taste -“  
  
Her sister snorts, and Sansa sighs into the phone.  
  
“No kidding, Sanny - anyone of us is more likely, even Jon. I know for a fact he went skinnydipping with Ygritte last summer and he’s more uptight than Dad.”  
  
“I know, okay, I know - but this was just something I needed to do, and who knows maybe I’ll find Mr Right.”  
  
It’s Arya’s turn to sigh now.  
  
“Only you could turn sweaty buttcheeks on an ATV into a fairytale, Sansa. I gotta go okay, I’m gonna take the dogs out before work - be safe big sis.”  
  
“Thanks - give Lady a kiss from me, talk soon.”  
  
Sansa hangs up and leaves her mobile on the nightstand, if she’s staying five nights, then she might as well get organised. She lifts her case onto bed and begins to unpack her things into the bamboo wardrobe on the other side of the room. She drops her favourite pair of whiter-than-white plimsolls near the door, and slides her case under the bed - and lastly, the novel she’d been reading on the short flight over goes onto the nightstand next to her mobile.  
  
With her hands on her hips, Sansa looks about the room suddenly unsure of herself. Arya is good at rattling her - she always has been, that had been a source of much of their discord as children, but strangely her sister’s words have left her with nothing but a sense of anticipation. If only she knew what to do now…  
  
“Hey there!”  
  
Sansa turns to find a young, sandy-haired woman smiling at her warmly from the open door. Sansa’s room is one of three in the cabin and as she understands it, she’s sharing with some of the other girls who are filming for the same show she is.  
  
“Hi! I’m Sansa,” she offers her hand and the woman takes it looking Sansa from the tips of her pink-painted toes to the top of her copper haired head.  
  
“Margie. Hmm, so you’re my competition then.” she says, giving Sansa an appraising look.  
  
Sansa is taken aback - she knows it’s a dating show, she knows two women other than herself will be set up with her date - just as Sansa herself will be offered the choice of three bachelors, but she had _no idea_ they would take it this seriously. Something of her alarm must have shown on her face, because suddenly Margie is laughing.  
  
“Oh I’m just kidding!” She says, reaching to take Sansa’s hand again, “but you should’ve seen your face, doll!”  
  
“Oh, right…” Sansa says, absently playing with the end of her hair - an old nervous habit.  
  
“You are very pretty though - I’m sure he’ll like you, I’m sure all your dates will like you.” Margie gives her hand a little tug. “Have you been down to the main house yet? That’s where we’ll have our meals, and where we party. Oh you’ve got to see the pool!”  
  
Sansa shakes her head, “who is _he_?” she asks, slipping on her sandals and allowing herself to be led away from the cabin and down onto the pathway to the other buildings. It’s obvious Margie has an in Sansa doesn’t.  
  
When she had arrived at the retreat Sansa was greeted by the director’s assistant, a sweet young guy called Pod who had given her a map and list of times and locations for filming, but he hadn’t said much more than stressing how she needed to be in those places at those times.  
  
“Haven’t you heard?” Margie says, looking at Sansa seriously, a little of that same appraising note present in her glittering honey brown eyes. “Oh you haven’t have you - well, I have it on good authority that this is a special episode. It’s meant to be a surprise, of course, but bachelor number one is none other than Joffrey ‘KJ’ Baretheon.”  
  
Sansa stops in her tracks and gapes at this news. How could that be possible? KJ was _the hottest_ pop star in Westeros - his song _I Am The King_ was everywhere right now, she had even heard Arya, who had called his music shallow and over produced, singing the catchy chorus in the shower. KJ was one of the biggest names in the Seven Kingdoms and in a matter of hours, she, Sansa would be his date, his _naked_ date.  
  
“But Margie, he’s… How did you even find out?”  
  
“Does the name Tyrell mean anything to you?”  
  
“Tyrell…” Sansa thought a brief moment, she had definitely heard that name before. “You’re Margaery Tyrell - as in the _High Garden Sound_ Tyrells?”  
  
It was the second surprise for Sansa in as many minutes. High Garden Sound was about the most prominent record label in the country, founded almost fifty years ago by tough as nails ex-pop star matriarch Olenna Tyrell.  
  
“The one and only - my grandmother knows just about everyone there is to know in Westeros. She mentioned they were auditioning girls and when I said I was interested, she sent over my video.”  
  
“I thought this was just for fun,” Sansa says as they begin to climb the steps to the main hall, suddenly feeling a little overwhelmed.  
  
When Sansa had made up her mind, she had found the casting link on the CRTV site, filled out a few questions and sent her picture. Someone from the network had called three days later and offered her the role of ‘bachelorette number one’.  
  
“It _is_ just for fun, doll - don’t you worry, KJ maybe the man of the moment, but we’re still a couple of pretty girls looking for a bit of adventure. So what if our families gave us a little boost to get here.”  
  
As Margie says this, Sansa can feel the stroke of her fingers against her wrist and it gives her tingles.  
  
“You know - you’re right,” Sansa says, and means it. “That’s why I’m doing this. It was finally time to break out of my shell a little bit, do something wild for once - but no, no way, my family had nothing to do with this.”  
  
Sansa laughs imagining what her stern, serious father would say if he found out - _will say_ , she reminds herself. Her mother is more free spirited perhaps but there was no way they would have had any part in assisting her to take her clothes off on tv.  
  
Margie meets her eyes, brows raised as she pulls back the screen door, allowing Sansa to enter the hall first and Sansa stares back. She wants to like her, she really does - they’ve known each other a matter of minutes, and Margie seems pretty, fun and clever, exactly the sort of girl she would befriend at home, but theres something about her that Sansa doesn’t quite trust.  
  
Margie grins.  
  
“Sure,” she says. “You’re a sweet one, doll, I’ve decided I like you - in fact, I think we’re going to be great friends. C’mon - let’s get something cold to drink, do you think it’s too early for sangria?”  
-  
  
As it turns out, it hadn’t been too early for a drink and after a few sips Sansa had begun to relax a little more, though she had kept referring to both the paper Pod had given her, and the nearest clock to ensure she wouldn’t be late for filming her first date.  
  
Though she had still felt there was something devious about Margaery Tyrell, Sansa couldn’t help but enjoy her company. Soon they were joined by another girl, Dany, who they quickly learned was to be KJ’s third date and another pair, Myranda and Mya who were busy filming something else altogether.  
  
It hadn’t taken long in the conversation for Sansa to realise she was something of an anomaly. While the girls had begun to share bawdy kiss-and-tell tales of boys they had once known, Sansa had found her stories were falling short. When asked pointedly what her ‘favourite lay had been like’ Sansa had sipped her drink and shrugged.  
  
“Hold on -“ Dany had said, swinging the curtain of ice blonde hair away from her face so that she could look fully on Sansa’s reddening cheeks. “You’re not telling me you’re still a _maid_?”  
  
Dany’s favourite story had been about an old boyfriend Drogo, leader of a Dothraki biker gang, who had once taken her astride one of his motorcycles. Sansa had listened breathlessly with the other girls as Dany had described the pressure of his large, strong hands on her back as he had effortlessly moved her up and down on his lap, and she had felt the sting of loss clutch at her heart when Dany had told them how their passionate affair had been brought short. He had been killed, Dany said, after a terrible crash that had left him in a coma, and the shock of it had caused her to miscarry their child.  
  
There had been a few minutes of silence following Dany’s heart-wrenching story until she had given a little smile and reassured the girls that she would rather keep on talking about the good memories. That was when she had turned to Sansa, inviting her to take her turn.  
  
“Well…” Sansa had begun.  
  
“Oh come on - you either are or you’re not, there is no in between,” Mya had laughed.  
  
“Then, uh… yes, I am,” she had said - proud of herself for sounding unashamed even under the interested gaze of four pairs of more experienced eyes.  
  
This had been almost as sensational a reveal as Myranda’s tale of having two members of her brother’s rugby team on a flight between Old Town and White Harbour.  
  
For all that Arya teased Sansa about being prim and prudish, the fact of the matter was - there had been no one who Sansa had _wanted_ to share herself with. She hadn’t dated much, just a couple boys here and there in her first few years of college, but they had all been similar. Beautiful, of course, clean cut and well-to-do boys she’d met on and around campus or during classes and their dates had been fun, truly, but it had never felt right to take it further.  
  
Giving her maidenhead was supposed to be something special, and while she wasn’t dead set on waiting for marriage, at the very least Sansa had wanted it to be more than a rough and tumble with someone she’d rather forget.  
  
Like Arya, the girls had been inclined to tease her a little - but they had done so lightheartedly, suggesting that perhaps after this week, Sansa might be a maid no longer.  
  
Once again remembering those guys on the beach and Joffrey KJ Bareatheon’s beautiful, golden face - Sansa couldn’t help but wonder.  
  
It was then she had noticed the time, and she had stood, taking the last sip of her drink before a go-fer from the set had appeared to ensure she would make it to the correct location - it was time to get naked.

\- - -


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Now that we've set the scene - let's get to it!
> 
> Sansa has her first date, Brienne and Jaime talk on the phone and Joffrey, regrettably, is himself.

Sansa is proud of her body.

She’s tall, lithe and fit, with waist length copper hair, just like her mother’s and whether she’s dressed up or down to her nothings, she feels beautiful. So when it comes down to it - it’s not hard to let go of her lasting inhibition and dive in.

The silver-grey sundress she wears floats over her legs, brushing her skin in an almost intimate way now that she’s all the more aware of the fact that in a moment it’ll come off.

She makes it to her cue on time and Pod greets her, introducing her to the director - a woman called Brienne. She’s the biggest woman Sansa has ever seen, and somehow, she suddenly feels at ease looking into the woman’s bluer-than-blue eyes. There’s something so honest and reassuring about the director - no matter how risqué things are about to become, Sansa knows that under her watch, no one will dare step a toe out of line.

“Are you ready?” Brienne asks, after reviewing what’s about to happen for the fourth or fifth time.

They’re standing in a somewhat secluded section of beach, surrounded by trees on all sides except for where she’ll walk out onto the sand to meet her first date. Sansa fingers the strap of her sundress and stares out at the wide white sand beach. She takes a deep breath of warm sea air and nods.

“Great - let’s roll!” Before she can lose her nerve, Sansa slips the straps from her shoulders and tugs on the dress, letting the fabric slide down her body to pool at her feet in the sand.

The feel of the breeze on her pale, naked skin is more than a bit thrilling and though she’s aware of the small camera crew assembled around her, she takes the final plunge and pulls the strings of her bikini, letting it too, fall to the sand.

Arya would be proud, she thinks, slipping out of her sandals and letting her toes wiggle in the sand.

“Here we go,” Brienne says, pointing her out towards the beach. “Date in five, four…”

She counts the rest of the way on her fingers, as Sansa takes a few steps out onto the beach, looking up to see a figure emerging from the shade of the tall palms. She can’t help the shy smile that curls her lips and the blush that reddens not only her face, but down her chest as well.

Margie had been right.

Standing in front of her, naked as his nameday, is KJ himself, Westeros pop royalty, looking just as golden and beautiful as in any one of his music videos. He’s everything she could have hoped for - well formed, slim and blonde, with green eyes that seem to glint in the sunlight.

Sansa notices the way he glances over her body as he offers his hand in greeting, and though her arm has slid instinctively across her breasts, his attention seems appropriate under the circumstances. And the fact that he’s naked too, well… Sansa lets herself look, just once, down the full length of his body and allows the tiniest glance at his…

“Alright - who blew it?”

“Who did what - I’m sorry?” She looks up and away, pointedly into his eyes, her own, wide with shock.

“I was supposed to be a surprise,” he’s grinning now and she suspects, he likes what he sees. “I’m Joff - but I bet you knew that already.”

Sansa nods.

“Nice to meet you - Joff,” she repeats, nearly tripping over his given name. “I’m Sansa.”

“Pretty name for a pretty girl,” he compliments and she shivers as his eyes do another flick downward, taking in the sight of her.

“What do you say we get to our date?”

She nods again, feeling silly, but steeling her confidence, Sansa drops both hands to her sides and follows Joff out onto the beach. Both Pod and Brienne had coached her through this moments before filming. They were to take a walk along the shore, where they were encouraged to get to know each other, to a hut on the far end of the beach where they would learn to make fruity island cocktails. When the crew had told her this, Sansa had been silently thankful their activity wasn’t to be anything the likes of what she had seen on tv.

“So, pretty girl,” he says, leading her down to the shoreline so they can walk amongst the waves. “Where are you from?”

Sansa loves the feeling of the sea splashing in and out, over her feet - soon, she hopes, there will be an opportunity to swim in the ocean. The water helps her feel at ease, distracts her from her nerves and she finds it as simple as any regular conversation to answer his question.

“Up North actually - I grew up around Winterfell.”

It’s better this way, Sansa thinks, she rarely tells people that the prestigious college founded centuries ago by Brandon the Builder is really her family home, nor that the chancellor of the college is actually her father.

“Of course you are, just look at you,” he touches her shoulder with his hand then, and Sansa looks away from the waves at her feet and into his face. The green of his eyes has gone dark. “You must have sunblock - let me help you put some on.”

She takes a step back at this, looking at him closely - he obviously means to be kind, Sansa thinks, doesn’t he? That seemed to be what he had said - only the look in his eyes is downright predatory. Perhaps he’s just nervous, she hopes.

“That’s alright, thank you, though.”

“Are you sure?” Joffrey’s hand trails ever so faintly towards her neck, his eyes flashing. “I would hate to see anything happen to that pretty skin of yours.”

“No, really. I already put some on - my sister reminded me this morning.”

“Oh, how nice of her.”

Though Sansa decides to give him another chance - he’s KJ after all, why shouldn’t she believe the best of him, she cant help but put an extra step between them as they head down the beach and as he begins to talk, she cannot help but look back over her shoulder to make sure Brienne isn’t far behind

 

-

 

Later that afternoon when they had finished filming, Sansa had found Margie and Dany by the pool. 

As soon as Sansa had stripped down to her bikini and jumped into the water, they had followed. She had been ready to tell the girls about her first date, how she was to call him Joff now, how he had told her impressive stories about what it was like to be famous, how he had complimented her pretty face. She had even thought to tell them how at times his attention had seemed more than a little overbearing, it was her duty to warn them, wasn’t it? But the girls had only wanted to hear one thing.

“It was fine alright, stop pestering me!” She says, squealing with laughter as Margie splashes her full in the face out of frustration.

“We didn’t ask you whether it was fine,” Dany says, circling around Sansa in the water to lean, elbows up on the side of the pool. “We asked you how big it was.”

Sansa shrugs - honestly, how is she to know? It’s not as if she’s got much of a frame of reference beyond the feeling of one rubbing against her leg.

“It’s not like you won’t find out for yourself soon enough,” she says a moment before she shrieks, feeling someone’s hands grab her ankles under water.

Margie surfaces right next to her, grinning through a tangled veil of wet hair.

“You’re too much fun, doll,” she says before grabbing a pool noodle from the deck and waggling it in Sansa’s face. “Was it bigger or smaller than this?”

 

-

 

After a few hours by the pool, the girls had wrapped themselves in colourful towels and headed inside for the evening meal. By then, Mya and Myranda had reappeared and they too had questioned Sansa about her date. When everyone had gotten over the fact that she could not with any great accuracy relay the information they all seemed to be after - the others had asked her about what the rest of the date was like. While they had talked, the area around the pool began to fill with people, and someone had switched on not only a loud stereo but strings of colourful lights that made the surface of the pool glitter against the darkening sky. They had returned to the poolside, drinks in hand and danced gleefully to the music.

Sansa had found herself alone with Margie after the others had mingled into the crowd, and they had bumped into each other when the song they were swaying to abruptly stopped. When _I Am The King_ began to play, Sansa knew that KJ - that _Joff_ had finally arrived.

He came down the steps from the main hall, greeting the party-goers as if they were loyal subjects, and the crowd did their part, screaming and cheering for him as he lip-synched to his own song. A bald stoney faced man followed behind him everywhere he went, ensuring that no one actually touched the pop star as he made his way around to the pool side bar. As he passed by, Sansa had raised her hand to wave shyly at Joff but he had looked back at her briefly, haughty and disinterested. The man behind him had noticed however, and he had glared at her so forcefully, Sansa found herself wondering what she could have possibly done wrong.

Suddenly, the music seemed too loud, the lights too bright. She reached for Margie’s hand then, and had said “I want to go.”

“But KJ just got here!”

“I had more than enough of him earlier - please, Margie?”

Margaery had considered her then, squeezing her hand in a reassuring sort of way.

“How about this, doll - I’m just gonna get one more drink, see if I can’t introduce myself before we meet tomorrow and I’ll be along right after. Meet you back at the cabin, okay?”

Sansa had nodded then, knowing full well she wasn’t likely to see Margie again before the night was through, but she had smiled anyway.

“Sure,” she said. “See you back at the cabin.”

Sansa had slipped away down the path and through the trees back towards their cabin.

 

-

 

With the noise and lights of the party behind her, the cabin which had appeared so charming in the light of day seemed all the more empty. At first she had dialled Arya’s number but the line had jumped straight to voicemail.

She had thought to shower, return to her book and call it a night, but as Sansa had pulled back the shower curtain she had shrieked more loudly than she had when Margie had grabbed her ankles.

Faster than she can think, she snatches a shirt from the wardrobe in her room and shoves on her sandals. Her feet carry her away from the hairy many legged whatever-it-was so quickly she hardly has time to consider where she’s going until she finds herself on the path that leads down to the beach.

The moon is up, the curved sliver of silver lights the reflects off the water but the lights of the party down the beach only make the night seem darker. No so dark she can’t go for a little dip, though. She’s still wearing her bikini and while she had nearly glazed over listening to some of Joff’s more inflated tales, she had longingly stared out at the water.

So what if she had spent the afternoon in the pool - there was nothing like the sea.

Sansa pulls the tshirt over her head and drops it onto the sand with her shoes and walks down the beach until she can feel the first splash of water on her toes, wading into the water until the waves crash around her hips. She’s just about to dive when she sees it - a gigantic creature moving through the water towards her and again, Sansa screams.

It’s not that she’s much more than startled - not really, but there’s only so much a person can take in one day, and at that moment Sansa finds herself entirely overwhelmed. It’s a man - that’s obvious now, but he’s huge, vastly tall and his body is so thickly muscled it seems to have no effect on him at all when Sansa balls up her fists and begins to pummel whatever part of him she can reach.

She stops when she realises he’s laughing at her.

“Oh Gods, I’m sorry,” she says backing away and slumping onto the sand next to her shoes.

“If that’s how you’d handle a shark it’s probably a good thing it was only me.”

He’s backlit by the moon and as Sansa looks up at him, all she can see is a shadowed face with long dark hair plastered to his neck and broad shoulders. He’s huge, she notices, incredibly, powerfully built from head to toe and his chest is covered in dark hair that trails down past the line of his shorts. His long, thickly muscled arms are covered in tattoos and a chain sways against his chest with two rectangular pendants that glint in the moonlight.

He makes the guys on the beach this morning look like little boys.

“Sharks?” She repeats, thankful that the darkness will hide at least a little of her gaping.

“You have heard of them, haven’t you?” the man says, and his voice is almost a growl. Sansa shivers, and reaches for her tshirt, pulling it over her head and around her body where it clings to her wet swimsuit.

“You know - big, fishy things, huge sharp teeth, like to eat little girls,” he says derisively, taking a few steps behind her to where he’s left a towel laid out on the sand near the trees.

“Then it’s a good thing there aren’t any little girls around, isn’t it?”

She’s had enough of this - it had been a big day, stepping so far out of her comfort zone, too much sun and not enough rest, the other girls had left her for the party and then there was the way that horrible man had looked at her and then Joff had been so dismissive - not to mention on top of it all, that monster in her shower. If some stranger on the beach thought he could tease her about beating up sharks, he had another thing coming.

“That’s it, get out the claws,” he says, laughing darkly. “That shark might out weigh you ten to one but at least this time you’ve got a fighting chance.”

He drops onto the sand and begins to dry himself with the towel, he seems to be ignoring her, but he hasn’t asked her to leave and though Sansa is loathe to admit it, what she really needs right now is company.

“How come you’re not back at the party?” She asks. She could have come up with a hundred better questions but she wants to know what brought him here too.

He gives a sort of scoffing laugh. “So I can be deafened by that rubbish they call music, drink myself stupid, paw at some half naked girl too drunk to notice this ugly face and fawn over King Joffrey like the rest of those idiot?”

It’s like talking to Arya, she thinks - the blunt delivery that makes her catch her breath, the coarse sort of candour that had always disheartened her as a child.

“I just -“ she begins, her voice a little unsteady but he cuts her off, turning to look at her, his face still half hidden in the dark. She studies him for a moment, catching the shadow of a heavy brow, hooked nose and strong jawline. He might not be classically handsome by any means, but he didn't seem ugly, not his face anyway - his words on the other hand.

“You asked and I told you,” he says, his voice rough and rasping. “Don't’ ask questions if you’re not prepared for the answers. I suppose you’ve got some better reason you’re not there - or have you just nicer, prettier words to say the same?”

“You don’t have to be so rude,” Sansa rebukes.

“That’s a yes then?"

"No - there was a man with KJ," Sansa says, remembering the bald man's dead eyes - the shudder in her voice must be obvious, somehow he knows who she means.

"Was there? Hah - that's Mister Payne and I'm afraid that's about as friendly as he gets."

"He looked at me like I was scum and Joff -"

The man laughs again, almost mockingly - what was his problem?

"Asked you to call him Joff, did he? You should count yourself lucky you’re not down there with the likes of him, filling you with those fruity drinks, hoping you’ll be drunk enough that he can fill you up with something else.”

“Excuse you!” She says, and her voice is so forceful that she startles a few sleeping birds from the trees behind them.“How can you say that?”

“Because it’s the truth.”

“But it’s disgusting!”

“Of course it is, and if you don’t think everyone of those brainless meatsacks isn’t here on this island to fuck as many pretty little birds like yourself as they can, then you’re full of shit.”

Who was this man - besides being unbelievably rude, he was frustrating her to no end.

“They’re here to find love, aren’t they - some of them have got to be,” she tries, wishing it were true and knowing exactly what this angry stranger will think.

He laughs at her again and this time it’s for such a long time that Sansa stands up and begins to walk away. As she reaches the pathway that leads back up to her cabin, she hears him call after her:

“Remember to use your claws, little bird!”

 

- 

 

Brienne is serious about her work.

She’s passionate about film - passionate about art and she loves to tell stories. She had spent six wonderful years studying to be a director and she was proud of the films she had made in that time. Behind the camera, Brienne could bring her vision to life and share herself in a way she had never felt comfortable with in person.

Once upon a time, Brienne had dreamed of making it big as a real-time film director and sharing her stories with the world, once upon a time before real life had brought that crashing down and she had ended up here, filming drunk college kids, reality television and raunchy dating programs. It’s late - nearing one in the morning and only recently had they finally finished filming for the night.

Brienne is exhausted - hot, sticky with sweat and generally in need of some quiet time alone, preferably far away from the noise and lights of the party that still carries on at the main hall. This is what her life has become these days, chasing naked fools around the jungle for a bit of cheap entertainment.

Its hot and humid this evening and Brienne doesn’t bother turning on the lights as she enters the cabin that she calls home. It had meant only to be a temporary measure when she had arrived on the island, and like the cabin, the job had meant to be temporary too. That was almost two years ago.

She grabs a bottle of water from the fridge and heads out onto the balcony, sinking heavily into a large comfortable deck chair and propping her feet up on the railing. It’s by no means as peaceful as it ought be, not with the way the sound of laughter and music is carried down the beach. Her phone buzzes in the back pocket of her shorts and she shifts a little in her seat to slip it out.

She answers without looking at the display - there’s only one person that calls her this time of night.

“Jaime,” she says wearily, “do you think its normal for a person to tell their scum-bag employer that they quit, no less than three times in as many months and somehow still be working for said scum-bag employer?”

“Normal? Definitely not,” Jaime laughs, and it’s such a warm, rich sound even through the phone that Brienne feels a flutter in her belly. “But when such a person has a heart of gold, not to mention a soft spot for said scum-bag employer -“

“Completely misguided as it may be.” she says seriously, though she can feel her resolve slipping, she’s too tired to resist Jaime Lannister’s signature charm tonight.

“And have I ever disagreed with you? Have I ever once said I would be anything but lost without your willingness to save my arse time and again?”

“Yes, as a matter of fact, I recall exactly some of the choice things you used to say to me.”

“Was that when I was still calling you wench all the time?”

“Jaime, you call me wench at least twice a day,”

“Well now I say it in a loving way,” he says and Brienne can almost swear his voice has become softer - more serious, but she must really be tired if she’s started imagining…

“Case in point,” Jaime continues, and he’s back to sounding like himself. “How did it go tonight, wench?”

“By the Seven you are intolerable,” she says, but she’s smiling.

Truthfully, when Brienne had arrived in Jaime’s office two years ago after being hired and assigned to work on the shows he produced for the network, they had not gotten along. Like so many other men in his position, they had not only scoffed at Brienne’s dedication to her art, but had been taken aback by her unusual appearance. Brienne was tall - she knew she was tall, and quite a bit more muscular than most women, she knew she wasn’t pretty, but somehow strangers felt the need to remind her of this constantly. When they had met, Jaime had been no different.

Jaime came from money - his family owned the network, and there was hardly a teenager in Westeros that hadn’t grown up watching music videos on CRTV - _Casterly Rock Television_. He had been inserted into the position of producer by his father who had needed eyes on the ground - someone young and attractive to connect with their viewers and produce the kind of television that would sell. Where Jaime was good at his job, Brienne knew, like her, his heart wasn’t in it, but in the beginning, that hadn’t stopped their constant head to head arguments.

Jaime seems to be waiting for her to answer, so she takes a long swig of water, kicks off her shoes and tells him truthfully.

“If we don’t have a lawsuit on our hands by the end of the week I will be shocked.”

“That good, was it?”

“He’s… Jaime, I’m sorry, I know he’s your family, but he’s a repellent little gnat I want to squash between my palms. How ever did you agree to this - it’s one thing to go along with the premise of the show, which I do grudgingly, as you know, but this,” she huffs a deep breath, remembering the predatory way Joffrey Baratheon had looked at Sansa Stark during their date.

“Did he touch her - has anyone complained?”

“No, that’s the problem,” Brienne sounds defeated despite it only being the first day of a five day shoot. “He’s behaved himself, for now anyway but it’s how he looks at her, Gods I feel like I’m serving up pieces of meat and he’s over there sharpening his knives.”

“I’ll tell Tyrion about it - he’ll need to be ready incase shit really does fly,” Jaime says firmly.

“Is that all you care about, honestly - what kind of legal trouble we might get into? They’re just girls -”

He sighs, and Brienne hears a little of that defeated note in his voice too.

“Consenting girls, Brienne they all signed waivers - and they’re not on their own, they’ve got you to make sure those slack-jawed little perverts don’t try anything.”

“So I’m director, babysitter and bodyguard now?”

Officially, Brienne worked for CRTV and she directed episodes of various reality programming geared towards the young people of Westeros filmed in and around the retreat. Unofficially, the raucous, bordering on chaotic, atmosphere of the retreat was so at odds with Brienne’s responsible nature that she found herself taking on a greater role off camera too. She was never acknowledged for this side of her work, but without a doubt the place would fall down around them if it weren’t for her.

“I know what he is, Brienne, and one day, maybe the rest of the Seven Kingdoms will too but for now, he thinks he’s the king.”

“That doesn’t mean we have to treat him like one.”

“I know - I’ll talk to Tyrion, and I’ll talk to Cersei too, though Gods only know what she’ll do about it.”

Cersei, Joffrey’s mother, was Jaime’s step sister - and she had managed her son’s career ferociously. With or without the backing of her family and the assistance of CRTV in heightening the popularity of his music videos, there was nothing she wouldn’t do to ensure her son’s success.

“Did she really hand pick the girls for him?” Brienne asks, hoping there wasn’t any truth to the rumour she had heard from the crew.

Jaime laughs, and Brienne can’t tell if he sounds more amused at her near hopeful tone or more derisive at his sister’s behaviour.

“Do you really think she was going to let some casting lackey do it? No - she picked them, alright, not only did they have to be beautiful but they had to come from good family names too. The Targaryen girl stood out straight away, their family owns an airline for Seven’s Sake, and Olenna Tyrell called to casually inform us that her granddaughter was available, you know that old bat makes me fear for the integrity of my genitals -”

Brienne lets out a burst of laughter in spite of herself.

“Jaime!” She admonishes, lest he think too much of himself. “Where did you find Sansa then?”

“Well - Tyrion had met with Cersei to go over Robert’s will again, and Petyr Baelish came in to talk about licensing Joff’s music for the sound track for Wild Wild Westeros. Apparently he’d heard it from casting that Sansa had applied and was all too keen to have Cersei include her. It’s not like her family is anything to sneeze at either - her father is chancellor at Winterfell.”

“Baelish? What a little, he’s her-“

“I know. Look, I’ll talk to Sandor too, alright? You keep an eye out for the girls and I’ll get him to see to Joffrey.”

Sandor Clegane was Joffrey’s personal bodyguard - the head of a squad that had accompanied the pop star on this trip for what had been stated as ‘security reasons’. Brienne had seen the man, people would be more likely to offer their hand to a snarling, starved dog than temp trouble with him.

Jaime’s plan doesn’t sound particularly effective to Brienne though - whatever anyone says to the contrary the so called bodyguard looks more like a hired thug, available to act out fantasies in which King Joff finds himself inadequately muscled.

Brienne catches herself then - just because Clegane was grim as the Stranger himself and with a face to match, _how had he got those awful scars?_ , it didn’t mean there wasn’t more to him. Better than anyone, Brienne knows what it’s like to be judged by your appearance, and she’s careful not to make the same mistake in return.

“Brienne?” Jaime says her name softly but it makes her jump nevertheless.

“Hmm?”

“You got all quiet.”

“Oh I was just -“

“Thinking about me naked? Likewise, wench.”

Brienne can’t say when it happened exactly - sometime after their arguments had evolved into friendly sparring, but she’s noticed something different in the way that Jaime speaks to her. Any other girl might think he was flirting with her, but Brienne isn’t that foolish, not anymore.

“I see enough naked idiots during my work day, what makes you think I need to start imagining them in my time off too? Goodnight, Jaime.”

She hangs up then, knowing better than to tempt a good spirited argument, they enjoy fighting with each other too much. Tonight she needs her rest and maybe, well maybe, she doesn’t want to spend the next hour reminding herself of all the reasons why Jaime would most definitely not be flirting with a girl like her.

After a shower and another bottle of ice cold water she slips into bed and curses her traitorous mind for instantly imagining Jaime Lannister naked.

\- - - 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Time to set a few things up.
> 
> Sandor is very rude, Brienne gets some good news and Sansa has some girl time.

Brienne likes to keep herself in peak condition. 

She pulls out her earbuds and drops her iPod onto the counter, wiping at the sweat on her brow with the back of her hand. She always runs first thing in the morning, no matter how late she’s up the night before.

Even though she had done the sensible thing - hung up on Jaime before they could get too deep, and though she had gone to bed earlier than usual, Brienne feels hardly rested.

His parting comment had filled her mind with something she tries very hard to avoid thinking about. It isn’t that she doesn’t want to think about beautiful, golden Jaime Lannister naked, moving on top of her - inside her - moaning her name and breathing hotly into her ear, no - he is unbelievably good fantasy material if ever she needs to take care of her… needs, but Brienne is not about to make a fool of herself.

There was simply no way a man like that would want a woman like her. It may have sounded like he had taken to flirting with her, but Brienne knew there had to be some other explanation. He didn’t really mean it, he couldn’t possibly.

And it wasn’t just that, not only had their conversations become more flirtatious, they had also begun to talk long into the night, first about work and then gradually about anything and everything else.

After last summer, and the accident that had taken Jaime’s right hand, they had seemed to grow even closer. He had relied on his growing friendship with Brienne more than ever and he had shared with her some of his darkest secrets.

There was no need for Jaime to call her after filming, despite the excuses he would invent. He did though, and neither of them had made any indication that they would like it any other way - Brienne had even begun to look forward to it.

They were friends, good friends now - and though every once in a while Brienne allowed herself to fantasise about Jaime, she knew it was far too dangerous to encourage those kinds of thoughts.

They would only ever be friends, and the problem was, thinking about him naked did nothing to help Brienne remember that it would never change.

She showers and dresses - a bright blue tshirt and ever functional cargo shorts and heads down to the main hall. It would be nice if she had a proper kitchen in her cabin, but it would be nice is she had a lot of things in life.

It’s early enough that there’s hardly anyone around save for the staff - Islanders who work in and around the retreat, and only a handful of people at the long bench style tables who had taken it easy last night.

In the far corner of the hall she sees a lone figure at the end of the farthest table. She recognises him instantly, tall, thickly muscled, long dark hair, scarred face.

Sandor Clegane, she can see, is just finishing breakfast and as she approaches the table, he sets down a half full cup of coffee and stares at her.

“Hi,” she says looking him in the eye. She knows what its like to have strangers fixate on her imperfections but there’s such ferocity in his stormy grey eyes that it makes it difficult. “I’m Brienne - I work with Jaime. He didn’t happen to talk to you about Joffrey did he?”

“Must’ve missed his call,” Sandor says and his voice is low and gravelly, intimidating. He takes a sip of coffee. “Something important, was it?”

Brienne nods, “It’s Joffrey - he makes the girls uneasy.”

“You sure about that? I seem to recall Mr Payne doing everything in his very considerable power to keep them from carrying the boy away last night.” Sandor speaks slowly, guardedly and Brienne can’t tell whether he’s taking her seriously or not.

“My job is to make sure everyone feels comfortable.”

“Is it now? Aren’t you director? I assume you were the one His Grace threw tantrum about before the party. There probably aren’t too many women on this island fitting the description - what was it he said? _some fussy old bitch bigger and uglier than my Hound_ \- that’s me by the way,” he says, looking her full in the face as if to scare her away with his own.

He drains his cup and when he stands. Sandor is only taller than her by four or five inches at most but he makes her feel small, a rarity for Brienne.

She flushes, her cheeks feel blazingly hot. Joffrey’s words are disgusting, and the way that this coarse, frightening man repeats them is no better but she can take it - she’s heard worse. Brienne is here for the girls - for Sansa, and she won’t fail her.

“If you don’t do something about him, I will and he’ll find out just how ugly I can get.”

“King Joffrey will do as he pleases.”

“Not on my watch,” she seethes.

“You don’t understand me,” Sandor says, more seriously this time - he’s trying to warn her. “He can’t be controlled, not by me, not by his mother, not by any contract his imp uncle has made up. Joffrey will have what he wants and if the first girl won’t let him, there’s always another who will.”

“And you’re just happy to stand by and watch?”

“Do I look fucking happy about it?” Sandor says harshly, his voice raising only a little. Even so a pair of girls at the next table take notice, eyeing him warily.

Brienne glares at him.

“No, you don’t, and neither do I, so can you at least try to do something about it?”

She might at least encourage him to do the right thing - he’s no blind follower of Joffrey’s and where he is harsh and strident in his delivery Brienne can see that Joffrey’s behaviour bothers him.

“I’ll do what I’m paid to do,” Sandor says and he walks away.

Brienne sighs and walks the opposite way towards the kitchens. It could’ve gone worse, she thinks, grabbing a mug and pouring a coffee for herself.

As she blows steam from the top of the mug, she pulls her phone from the side pocket of her shorts and dials Jaime’s number.

“Wench!” He says warmly as if by way of greeting.

“Not now.”

“What’s happened?”

“Nothing.”

“Liar. Tell me, who do I have to kill?”

“No one.”

“Liar!”

Brienne takes a sip of too hot coffee and draws a sharp breath.

“It’s just - I just talked to Sandor.”

Jaime laughs then, softly, kindly almost, even though she can tell he’s laughing at her.

“And he laid on his usual charm did he? I know he’s bigger than you, Brienne, but you’ll have to tell him you’re taken.”

“Jaime, stop, please - you can’t turn everything into a joke.”

“I can, and I must - I will not have you upset, wench, and I shall continue making jokes until I see you smile.”

“We’re on the phone,” she says, but damn him if his tactics haven’t already started to work.

“Fine. Hear you smile, I’ll just have to wait and see it tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow - what?”

“I’m flying over. I was just about to call, didn’t I say so? I’ve got some good news and some bad news too - and as I’m determined to raise your spirits I’ll deliver the bad first in hopes that you'll be so short sighted you'll forgive me.”

Brienne tucks her mobile between her shoulder and ear as she collects a plate of eggs, toast and fruit and goes out of there service entrance at the back of the kitchen. She sets her breakfast and coffee at the top of the stairs leading down to the road and takes a seat on the to step.

“If you must.”

“First, we’ll be filming a promo spot at the retreat and… Second, I sort of volunteered you to go camping.”

“That’s the bad news?”

All things considered, it’s hardly terrible. Brienne regularly films all kinds of things at the retreat, from gimmicky reality television to commercials - anything that might feature half-naked party goers enjoying the island way of life.

“Well, yes -“

“And the good?”

“I got you an episode of _The Bear and the Maiden Fair_.”

“You did what?” Brienne almost yells, nearly spilling her coffee all over her lap. She sets the mug down and tries again, more quietly this time. “You can’t be serious, Jaime, that’s real television, proper stories and actors and everything. How?”

She can almost see him shrug as if it was no effort at all.

“Have you forgotten how well connected I am? They’re shooting the next episode on location in Walano. My contact asked if I knew anyone who might like a guest shot and you were my go to, naturally.”

“Oh, Jaime, thank you -“

“You can thank me tomorrow,” he says, cutting her off. “If you thought I was going to miss out on this, you’d be sorely wrong. I get to expense the whole trip and my father will think I’ve finally taken an interest in my job. Say you’ll do it?”

“Of course!” Brienne says immediately. It doesn’t matter that it’s short notice or that she’ll be on location with an unfamiliar crew. This could be jumping off point to the change she’s been looking for.

“Good, because I already told them you would, they're expecting us tomorrow midmorning.”

“Thank you, Jaime, truly.”

“Anything for you, wench.”

When she hangs up, Brienne is full of an excitement that she’s rarely felt these past few years. It’s an unbelievable opportunity. Not only is _The Bear and the Maiden Fair_ a popular program - a weekly crime drama about an unlikely pair of detectives, but it is well written and well respected too.

Still, however excited she may be, Brienne hasn’t forgotten Joffrey, or Clegane or her determination to keep everything running smoothly.

 

-

 

Sansa wakes up to the sound of her mobile.

“Hello,” she says sleepily. She blinks and looks toward the balcony window at the clear light streaming through the trees. It’s early morning, and she can hear the sounds of little birds twittering away amongst the leaves.

“Hey Sanny - sorry I missed you last night!”

It’s Arya, and though it takes a second, Sansa remembers that she had tried to phone her sister when she had returned to the cabin the night before.

“Hey - how’s Lady?” She asks without thinking, suddenly missing her dog, and as if Lady knows Sansa has said her name, she can hear the husky bark excitedly in the background.

“No, good morning little sis, thanks for calling me back, how are you?"

“Sorry, I just miss her - and I miss you too,” Sansa laughs, a little ashamed. “You know, when we were kids I never thought I would ever say that and here I am calling you every three seconds.”

Arya laughs too, and there’s a loud whirring buzz of a blender, followed by the sound of two dogs barking in protest that cuts off her next words.

“What did you say?”

“I said - either we’ve gone and done the unthinkable and,” she puts on a deep voice to imitate their father, “ _matured into our relationship as sisters_ , just like Dad said we would, or you must be desperate. Did you have a shitty night or something?”

“Oh shut up - you know how much I love you,” Sansa says, and she hopes Arya really does. She considers telling Arya about her night - about Joff and the date, but instead she says, “do you ever get sick of talking about, you know... sex?”

Arya can see right through her.

“Sansa, you’re at the epicentre of hookups of course that's what everyone wants to talk about - the pheromone count must be through the roof.”

Sansa sighs and rolls over, burying her face into the pillow.

“I know… but I haven’t talked to a single person about anything else since I got here. Well except for a man I met on the beach and all he did was shout at me about punching sharks before he started off on how disgusting boys are and I yelled at him, Arya - I yelled at a stranger on the beach in the dark. Gods, I really  think you're rubbing off on me.”

“Hang on - you punched a shark?”

“No, Arya, I didn’t punch a shark, ugh, I need to shower,” she groans as she rolls out of bed and stretches.

“I used to think that about you - all you’d ever want to talk about was boys and pretty things and stuff I didn’t care about, but you proved me wrong,” her sister says, and Sansa feels heartened. “And I grew up too remember - and suddenly talking about boys and hook ups wasn’t so bad after all. It’s only been a day - just give them a chance, okay?”

“I - okay, I will - thanks little sis.”

Talking to Arya has done her well. It's early, but Sansa feels good, she feels suddenly alive and ready to take on a new day - she even feels brave enough to see if whatever-it-was was still lurking in her shower.

“We’ll talk soon - just not too soon, I want you to actually have a good time.”

“I’ll do my very best.”

“And call Robb - I nearly forgot to tell you, call Robb when you get a chance, okay?”

“Sure… What's going on with Robb?”

“Not my story to tell. Love you.”

“Arya! Okay - love you too.”

 

-

 

Once she's showered and dressed, Sansa decides to head down to the main hall for breakfast. After last night, she's expecting the other girls to still be in bed, so it comes as a surprise to see Dany curled up reading a heavy book in one of the lounge chairs on the deck outside the cabin’s front door.

“Hey," she says with a soft almost sleepy smile. “Where did get off to last night?”

Sansa is surprised anyone had even noticed that she left and it feels nice to be missed.

“Nowhere really,” she says and though that’s not quite accurate, the truth is not worth talking about. “I just got a little overwhelmed.”

“Yeah, I didn’t last much longer than you - I love to party, but I figure if we’re here all week I’d better pace myself. I’m used to a much quieter life at home, if you know what I mean.”

Sansa nods, leaning against the doorframe. There’s not much a view from this side of the cabin, as it looks directly into the trees that surround the retreat, but as she answers, she looks up, watching a pair of brightly coloured birds chase each other through the foliage.

“Me too - It’s just school and work and my dog most of the time.”

“You go to school? Where?” Dany asks, and she sounds genuinely interested. “What do you study?”

“Literature, at King’s - my Dad is head at Winterfell and I think he and Mum would have liked me to follow in the family tradition. But… I wanted to come to the big city - try it out on my own for a while.”

“I know what that’s like. I started out studying abroad at the University of the Undying and transferred to Dragonstone in my third year.”

“What’s your major?”

Dany holds up her book so that Sansa can read the title: A History of Slavery in the Seven Kingdoms. “Government and politics,” she says, “my roommate laughed his ass off when he saw I packed this.”

They talk for a few minutes more until Sansa suggests they go down for breakfast. There’s a little kitchenette in the cabin, but there’s nothing but bottled water in the fridge and she suspects the area is rarely used for anything more than making coffee.

Talking with Dany has already made her feel more optimistic, so by the time the afternoon rolls around, she’s excited to go on her second date. Somewhere else on the island, Margie would be on her date with Joffrey, and Sansa finds that she doesn’t feel at all jealous of the other woman.

 

-

 

When Sansa arrives at the designated location, Brienne pulls her aside to speak privately behind the cover a low hanging palm.

“I'm sorry, Sansa - about yesterday,” the director starts, “I've done what I can to make sure Joff behaves himself from now on, and I just want to make sure you're comfortable with going ahead again today.”

She's about to say that it's okay - that he had probably been nervous or excited, but thinking of the way he had looked at her, Sansa decides that she won't make excuses for him.

“Thanks, Brienne,” she says instead.

It was hard to say what he had been exactly. The drinks mixing lesson had been almost fun and with a bar between them and a task that kept his hands visible and occupied, Sansa had felt comfortable enough to laugh at his stories - he had seemed more like the flashy pop star from his videos.

Joff hadn’t said anything rude or demeaning and he hadn’t touched Sansa in anyway that was inappropriate but there was still something about him that made her skin crawl.

It was like spending too much time around Uncle Petyr. 

Brienne seems to understand her though.

“I know - and due to the nature of the show,” Brienne starts, in a resigned, practiced tone as though she’s quoting from memory, “we're under contract to only take action on explicit verbal or physical threats.”

Sansa nods, she had read the waiver and from what she could tell, the legal representation of CRTV had done well to ensure that the show's participants would not be able to file a complaint unless it was what the executives had deemed ‘acutely serious’. There was no doubt that Joffrey Baratheon would stretch the legal guidelines to the limit.

“As for off camera… Come to me if anything happens to you or any of the other girls,” Brienne says, looking down at Sansa seriously. “This show is ridiculous at best, but that doesn’t mean it shouldn’t be safe. Just because he thinks he can get away with anything doesn't mean I won't do something about it on my own time.”

“I will, I promise. Thank you, Brienne.”

“So are you ready to go ahead?”

“Yes," Sansa says, whoever today's date is can hardly be worse than Joff - and who knows, the hopeful side of Sansa really wants it to work out. “Let’s go.”

\- - -

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so pleased everyone seems on board so far, thank you for your kind words!!
> 
> It might feel like not much happened here, but as I was busy thinking about our lovers and how to get them naked, a little plot bunny jumped up and insisted I take care of it first. And to those of you who were hoping Jaime might show up for a little naked fun of their own...


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa goes on her second date, Sandor tells a story and the tide comes in.

Sansa’s second date had been surprisingly fun.  
  
Harry was good looking, his body was fit and tanned and his… well it too had seemed perfectly fine to Sansa, but then what did she know? He had laughed easily, mostly at his own jokes, but he had bothered to ask her a few questions and she was pretty sure he might have actually been listening to her when she answered.  
  
Harry had been fun, perhaps a little full of himself and maybe not as clever as Sansa would have liked, but he had also been polite and though they had been just as naked as she and Joff had been on her first date, Harry hadn’t once made her feel uncomfortable.  
  
He was so very like the guys she had dated at home, and there was something comforting in that - so much so that when Harry had suggested they spend the rest of the afternoon together, she had agreed. Clothes on, of course.  
  
For their activity, they had been directed down the beach toward a raft tethered to the shoreline, equipped with two oars. They’d had so much fun paddling through the shallow water while the crew had punted around behind them that when they had finished filming and gone back to the beach to get dressed, Harry had proposed they take the raft out on their own.  
  
Easily visible from the shore, they could see another island considerably smaller than Omboru. They had gone up to the main hall to make themselves a picnic of sorts, complete with fruit, plenty of water and a little of the sweet wine that Sansa liked, and they had rowed out to the island to enjoy it.  
  
Sansa had stripped down to her bikini as Harry had pulled the raft up onto the beach and laid a blanket on the warm sand. The picnic had been a wonderful idea, and she had even begun to feel a little more optimistic about the potential of finding love during her trip. She was almost certain that it wouldn’t be here and now - Harry wasn’t perfect, but he was a good start.  
  
She had even allowed him to kiss her and to his credit, he had kept things respectable, stopping as soon as she had felt things had gone far enough.  
  
“Are you sure?” he had sighed with a charming sort of smile, as if he meant to change her mind.  
  
Sansa had smiled back, “I’m sure - I’ll give you a second to cool down while I change out of my swimsuit. We should be getting back soon.”  
  
"Whatever you say," he had said. Harry had looked suddenly sulky - disappointed that he hadn't been able to change her mind, but he hadn’t pressed it further.  
  
As Sansa had taken her things and walked a few metres into the brush behind the cover of the trees, she had known she was already finished with him. If he wasn't okay with her saying no, then she wasn't okay with him, period.  
  
When she had returned a few minutes later, Harry and the raft were gone.  
  
   
  
-  
  
   
  
Judging by the position of the sun in the sky - it’s near sunset. Sansa kicks the sand in frustration, cursing her own stupidity and any of the Gods who might be listening.  
  
She can’t decided who is the greater idiot, herself for trusting him even for a second or Harry, for being such a disgusting stinking arse.  
  
Sansa can see the shore easily - well enough that with the right sort of waving she would likely be able to draw attention to herself. She’s a decent swimmer, but that’s open water and she suddenly wonders whether there was any truth to the rumour about sharks. She won’t risk it unless she has to.  
  
The only trouble is, a few moments ago the sounds of bass-heavy pop music began drifting across the water and Sansa knows that with the party starting up at the main hall, no one is likely to come down onto the beach before morning.  
  
She can see the raft too, instead of returning it to it’s tether, she had watched Harry drag it up onto the beach and abandoned it there, along with most of the contents of their picnic. Sansa is grateful for the fact she has a few bottles of water and the blanket on which they had been laying, though the wine, which had also been left behind, she bitterly overturns into the sea.  
  
Sansa sits herself in the sand to wait. If no one appears before sundown she’ll have to save herself.  
  
The sun is low in the sky, and it glows fat and red above the horizon making Sansa’s copper hair look as though she really has been kissed by fire as the Wildlings of the North say. What feels like an age passes before she sees any sign of movement across the water.  
  
Sansa jumps to her feet, waving the blanket wildly in the air, shouting too - though it’s unlikely he’ll hear her at this distance but she can’t contain herself.  
  
It’s the foulmouthed man she had found swimming last night and he’s seen he raft. She recognises him right away - how had she not remembered there would be someone keeping their distance from the party.  
  
He bends down to look at it - and wonderfully, perfectly, just as Sansa had hoped, he looks up and across the water, to right where she’s standing and she jumps and flails all the more.  
  
The man doesn’t move for a moment, and Sansa fears that he might just leave her there, but a second later she watches him toss his towel onto the sand, collect the paddles and push the raft out onto the water.  
  
He reaches her quickly and Sansa rushes through the crashing waves to meet him, grinning so widely her cheeks hurt - excited and relieved.  
  
He’s laughing again. Damn him.  
  
“Is there going to be a second date?” he asks, taunting her.  
  
She’s about to say something - to tell him off, or thank him even as he mocks her but it dies on her lips as she sees his face - full on and well lit by the glow of the sinking sun.  
  
“Gods,” Sansa says, staring at him. The left side of his face is tight and twisted - scarred so badly only half the brow remains and the corner of his mouth is nothing but a cruel gash. She suddenly understands his words from the night before - ugly, he had called himself.  
  
“Look your fill, but spare your pretty words, I don’t need some pretty little bird tweeting bollocks - I’ve heard it all and it’ll be no sweeter coming from you.”  
  
With a foot in the water, he holds the raft steady for her to get on, offering his other hand to help her up. It’s then she comes to her sense, snapping her mouth shut and looking away - at the sky, the sea, the sand, her own feet - anywhere but at him.  
  
“Oh Gods - I’m sorry,” Sansa says, sliding her hand into his own large one and hopping up onto the raft. Once up, she scoots to the far side, though there’s far less room than there had been when she and Harry the Arse had used it earlier in the day. There seems to be so much more of this man - he’s broader and longer in the leg than Harry by far. He hands her a paddle and turns the raft so they can make their way back to Omboru.  
  
“I said spare it,” he growls at her.  
  
Sansa keeps her eyes on the waves, the dip and pull of her paddle in the calm water. She’s finds herself full of questions each less likely than the other to ever be spoken.  
  
“No,” she says firmly after a few minutes of silence, “It was rude of me, I was not brought up to be so thoughtless - you must at least allow me to apologise for that.”  
  
“Fuck your manners, girl.”  
  
“Why are you always so angry?” Sansa asks, nearly shouting the question and forgetting to paddle for a moment and turning to look at him again - this time into his eyes.  
  
“Take a guess.”  
  
“Whatever happened to you must’ve been awful, more awful than I could ever understand, and it can’t be any better working for Joffrey, not after what you said about him - you laugh at me like I’m silly and stupid but if you want me to keep my courtesies then I’d ask you to at least talk to me like a person instead of growling at me like some rabid dog.”  
  
Sansa takes a great gulp of breath and shuts her mouth, tightly, looking into his face, determined. His eyes are grey, like father’s, she thinks - but instead of the warmth and kindness she’s used to, it’s like looking into an approaching storm.  
  
He’s gripping the oar in tightly in both hands and the way he holds it makes Sansa think of the dog tags he was wearing last night and she wonders if that’s how he holds his weapon too. Now that there’s light enough to see, Sansa finds that he’s scarred elsewhere, faded gashes, and spidery white lines on his arms and the backs of his hands suggest a life of hard combat. It’s a detail she had missed last night as well. Without a doubt he has seen more that she could ever imagine.  
  
Still, Sansa thinks, whatever has happened to him, whatever horrors he has known doesn’t excuse his behaving like a beast.  
  
He seems to be thinking on her words for he’s quiet all the way back to the beach. He hops off the raft and pulls it, with Sansa still astride up onto the sand and tethers it into place.  
  
When he speaks next his voice is softer, like steel on stone.  
  
“Do you want to know how it happened?”  
  
   
  
-  
  
   
  
Sandor had dreamed of her.  
  
It had been dark that night - so dark he had known she had not fully seen his face and he had not been able to truly see the details of hers either. He had known without a doubt she would be beautiful but as he had approached her leaping and flailing wildly on that beach, as she had grinned widely at the sight of him, he had been well and truly stunned.  
  
It was such fucking irony, he thought - people usually ran from the sight of him, gruesome as he was. For once he had been given the opportunity to make a first impression without scaring them off with the way he looked, and what had he done with it? He had snarled at her, laughed at her and drove her away anyhow.  
  
He was doomed, it seemed, to live up to the name Joffrey had given him dog - hound - snarling, spitting beast - and here she was, this girl naive enough to believe that this island was for anything more than booze and fucking, calling him out and demanding better of him.  
  
For the greater part of his life he had looked the monster, how long had he been acting the part too?  
  
He had dreamed of her though - a silver tailed, copper haired mermaid had slipped and splashed through his mind’s eye, beckoning him, drawing him ever farther into a rough and stormy sea. He had followed her, ever nearer yet still out of reach until she had disappeared below the surface and he had followed, sinking into black.  
  
Sandor wasn’t a superstitious man and he didn’t believe the old tales of greenseers and wargs, but if there was one thing he had become good at over the years, it was trusting himself.  
  
Whatever his mind was telling him about the girl, Sandor knew he would rather drown a thousand times over than face the fire again.  
  
Sometimes he thinks he’s forgotten how to be kind.  
  
He remembers his conversation that morning with the director, how he had hid behind Joffrey’s words hoping to spook her and send her away rather than to have to listen to the truth he already knew.  
  
The truth was he worked for a sick little shit who had become drunk and inflated on the taste of fame and fortune and the sound of his own voice. He was spoiled and callous and the more the people of Westeros treated him like a king, the worse he was becoming. What was he supposed to do? It was his job to protect Joffrey from the public but Sandor knew all too well it ought be the other way around.  
  
It didn’t help that the Lannisters had him by the balls either.  
  
Why he still wore his army id tags, Sandor didn’t know - it wasn’t like he was ever going back, not anymore. He had served nine good years - joining the forces as soon as he was of age. There had been nothing for him at home anymore, his parents were dead, his sister had died too, and Gregor, well, his brother deserved to die more than anyone.  
  
He hadn’t had a second thought when he had killed him. Sandor had thought only of the anguished screams of a young boy, the smell of melting flesh, and the half-remembered pleading sobs of a girl’s voice.  
  
With everything Gregor had done, there wasn’t a jury who would convict him. That’s what the imp lawyer had said, but Sandor hadn’t been keen to test his theory.  
  
The first time the Lannisters had approached him, Tyrion had found him in a cell at Harrenhal awaiting booking, Gregor’s blood still on his hands. He had stayed there only three weeks - and whatever the imp had done to secure his release, he didn’t want to know. Sandor had taken his dishonourable discharge, left the army and quietly disappeared.  
  
He had been Cersei’s man first, until High Garden Sound had signed Joffrey to their exclusive label, and since then, Sandor had been two steps behind the boy.  
  
It had never been explicitly stated, but Sandor knew that if the they ever became displeased with his service he would back in Harrenhal before he could blink and he doubted this time any jury would be so forgiving, certainly not if they knew what he had done for his employers.  
  
 In the light of the setting sun, she’s radiant - all pale skin, pinked from the heat of the day, with a dusting of freckles just beginning to surface across the bridge of her nose. He curses himself for wondering where else he might find more of those freckles that look so like sprinkled brown sugar.  
  
Sandor knows he has not been kind to her - not in any way she would recognise. He’s honestly not sure he knows how - but as she looks at him, determined to hide her fear, demanding better of him, he suddenly finds he wants to.  
  
When he opens his mouth to speak, his own words come as a surprise.  
  
“Do you want to know how it happened?”  
  
“Okay,” she says after a minute. She seems surprised at first but then she’s looking him in the eye and she smiles at him, tentatively, encouragingly and it’s like being punched in the gut - and so he tells her about the night Gregor held his face to the fire.  
  
   
  
-  
  
   
  
Sansa knows he’s never told this story before.  
  
There’s something in the way that he talks that tells her he’s never shared this part of himself with anyone. His words are agonising, heartbreaking - it’s one of the hardest stories she has ever listened to. His voice, deep and rasping, gives her chills, but it never breaks, not once.  
  
Not when he tells her about the toy solider, Gregor’s rage, the fire, the pain - not when he tells her about his parents, his sister or finally when he tells her what it was like to kill his brother, go to jail a disgraced soldier and come out a Lannister hound.  
  
They sit in the sand on the shore, and in the time he has spent talking, the sun has gone down and tide has come in. Where it had been metres from their feet, the waves have caught up to them, splashing and spraying around their legs.  
  
When he is finished, he stops and they both stare silently out at the darkening sky.  
  
Sansa isn’t sure what to think. This man is a confessed killer - she had been right to think he had seen and done things she could never imagine, but instead of feeling scared she feels sorry.  
  
No one, she thinks, no one deserves that and it breaks her heart to know he has lived through the aftershock every day since. They sit side by side and Sansa slides over close enough that she can slip her hand over his much larger one, squeezing gently.  
  
“What’s your name?” She says. She had realised while he had spoken that she didn’t know - he had never said.  
  
He looks away from the water, first at her long, delicate fingers holding his own and then into her face. He clears his throat.  
  
“Sandor. Sandor Clegane.”  
  
“Well, Sandor,” Sansa says bravely, as softly and kindly as she can , “I am so truly sorry for everything, for all that has happened to you but I’m still not going to give you a free pass to be a jerk to me, okay?”  
  
For a brief moment Sansa sees a little of that stormy rage brew behind his eyes and she’s worried he might start shouting, but the worst of it seems to pass and suddenly he’s smiling - or at least that's what it looks like he means to do though the expression seems foreign on his harsh features. He shakes his head and he pulls his hand from hers to run it over his face, pushing his hair out of his eyes.  
  
“Those claws suit you, little bird,” he says finally. “You use them well.”  
  
Sansa shrugs, again he’s called her little bird and she finds, strangely, she likes it.  
  
“Tell me something happy.”  
  
“What?” He looks almost angry in his surprise.  
  
“You know - happy, the feeling that isn’t angry or sad or disgusted,” she teases. “Tell me about something that makes you happy.”  
  
Sansa can’t erase his story, heal his wounds or make him better, but she can try to remind him that stories of joy and wonder can be told just as easily as those of pain.  
  
“Hmm,” he says and the sound is a rumble deep in his chest. “Not sure I know that one. You better give me an example.”  
  
Sansa rolls her eyes at him. It’s curious, she thinks, how quickly she could grow accustomed to looking at his face - scars or not.  
  
“Fine,” she says, “one happy thought - and then it’s your turn, but I’m going to dry off first.”  
  
They’re practically sitting in the water now, a good few inches of warm sea water breaks against their legs and washes around their bottoms.  
  
Sandor agrees and when he stands, she notes the almost graceful way his body moves, surprising for someone so large. She hasn’t made up her mind about him, not yet - and that’s okay she thinks, because for whatever reason, Sansa finds herself wanting to take the time to find out.  
  
   
  
\- - -

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the wonderful response and for sticking with this cracky nonsense - and don't fret J/B will be back next chapter!!


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa calls her brother, Brienne receives visitors, and there is a fight.

Sansa had walked back to her cabin later that night unable to keep a secret sort of smile from spreading across her face.

The remnants of the picnic she had made with Harry had long since washed away into the sea, but their towels had been strewn high enough up the beach that Sansa had found one and dried herself while Sandor did the same with his own.

As she did so, her belly had rumbled loudly, and it wasn’t long after they had found themselves sneaking up the service staircase to the kitchen at the main hall, keeping as far out of sight from the poolside as possible.

Sandor had held her to her word and reminded her that she had promised him a happy thought.

Sansa had thought about Winterfell, her mother and father and brothers, about singing her heart out and catching snowflakes on her tongue, she thought about making Arya laugh, about telling stories and crisp unturned pages, about her friends, about fireworks in the sky over King’s Landing, and the ancient heart tree in the godswood at home.

“My dog - Lady,” Sansa had said, and as they had eaten, she told him about how she loved to go running with her early in the morning while the city was still quiet and about how much she loved coming home to Lady’s sloppy wet kisses and curling up with her at night.

He hadn’t spoken much the rest of the night and Sansa wondered if that was simply his nature or perhaps he was feeling the need to pull back a little after baring his soul as he had on the beach. But he had talked a little.

As it turned out, Sandor too was a great lover of dogs, which explained on of his tattoos - three running dogs inked in black down the length of his right arm. His grandfather had been an accomplished breeder and as a boy, Sandor had worked and played in and around the kennels as much as he was allowed. Dogs he had said, were a damn sight more honest than any person he’d ever met.

He had asked her for another 'happy thought', and then another and Sansa found herself telling him about other things that she loved. Sandor had listened to her stories intently, commenting here and there, sometimes watching her, sometimes looking up and out into the star-strewn sky.

It had been quite late by the time Sansa had stifled a yawn and told him she ought to head back to her cabin. Sandor had agreed.

Before she had left him on the path from the main hall she had reminded him that he too now owed her a happy thought.

“I’ll never keep a debt where I don’t have to.” Sandor had said looking down at her. “Tell me your name.”

“Sansa,” she had said quietly, suddenly breathless.

“Sansa,” he repeated, his ruined mouth making an almost warm half smile, his eyes dark like swirling grey smoke.

He had walked away then, and it had taken a moment for Sansa to understand him but when she had, her heart had done a strange sort of leap, and that secret smile had curled its way around her mouth.

-

When she wakes the next morning, it’s the first thing on her mind and she stretches her long limbs, allowing herself to sink back into the sheets for just a little while longer.

After a few minutes of listening to the soft melody of waves crashing on the nearby beach, playing over in her mind Sandor’s low rough voice, Sansa reaches for her mobile on the nightstand and dials her eldest brother’s number.

“Sansa!” Robb sounds happy to hear from her when he picks up the phone. “Where are you calling from?”

“Omboru,” Sansa says, sliding out of bed and opening the double doors to step out onto the deck. "And it's beautiful here!"

"Lucky - Arya said you went away for a few days - I bet that's why you're calling isn't it, she told on me."

Sansa laughs, looking out onto the path towards the beach, watching the waves break against the sand and she can’t help her mind from wandering to the hours she spent there last night.

"She didn't," she says, "though she might've mentioned you'd have some news."

“Yeah.” Robb sounds suddenly serious “I do.”

“Are you going to make me guess?”

Robb laughs at this, but Sansa can tell it’s forced, something isn't right.

“I - well, I’m gonna be a dad.”

“Oh Gods - Robb! That’s wonderful!” Sansa can’t help but shout - she loves her big brother dearly, and she knows in her heart he will make a wonderful father. “I’m so happy for you and Ros - how far along is she?”

“Jeyne.”

“What?”

“Jeyne Westerling,” he says but Sansa still doesn’t know what he means by it. She recognises the name - a pretty girl with chestnut curls Sansa had met once at a house party while she had visited her brother at school. 

“Jeyne’s pregnant, not Roslin.”

Oh.

“Oh, Robb, you didn’t.”

“I’ve already been ripped a new one from both Mum and Dad - I’m not interested in hearing it again.”

Last time Robb and Sansa had talked, which, to be fair, wasn’t as often as she would have liked, he had mentioned his girlfriend Roslin. That had been no longer than a month ago. They had seemed happy together, and the Starks were fond of Robb’s choice - everyone had thought he would marry her.

“I’m sorry,” Sansa says, running her fingers through her sleep tangled hair. “It’s not my business to judge. I just - what happened to Ros?”

Robb sighs deeply and she can tell he’s already sick of telling this story. If he doesn’t want to, Sansa won’t make him - what’s the point?

“Okay, I’m sorry, I won’t ask - I’m happy for you, I promise. I just - are you happy?”

Her brother is quiet for a moment.

“Yeah,” he says and it sounds as though he really is telling the truth. “I’m going to be a dad - well I’m going to be a husband first, we are - Jeyne and I - are getting married in eight weeks. I asked - it was the right thing to do, you know, and she said yes. She wants to before she gets too big, so...”

Robb trails off and Sansa can imagine the blue of his eyes, so like her own - so like their mother’s, growing wide and clear, seeking assurance like a little boy. Some might think him foolish but Sansa thinks him brave and responsible and she only wishes them the very, very best.

She tells him so.

“If you’re happy,” she says, “then I am honestly absolutely thrilled for you, okay?”

“Thanks, little sis.” Robb gives a nervous sort of laugh, “betcha weren’t expecting that, were you.”

“Gods, no.”

“So - gonna tell me what you’re doing in the Summer Isles?”

“Well…”

When Sansa hangs up and goes to shower, she decides it’s a good thing not to have told Robb why she had taken time away - he had more than enough going on right now.

 

-

 

Sandor was a fucking fool.

What the hell had he been thinking. Rescuing the girl like some knight in shining fucking armour had been one thing - but the hours he had spent with her afterwards, pouring out his blackened soul like tar onto the beach, that was just plain embarrassing. He had no idea what made him do it - and what had baffled him even more was that she had listened.

Sansa - oh Gods, even the thought of her name made his gut clench - she had stayed, and listened to him. Why had she listened to him? It was an absolute fucking miracle she hadn’t gone tearing off down the beach at the sight of his face in the light of day - never mind at the story he had told her.

Sandor had told her everything, too - and she had stayed, she had touched him, he could still feel it, the softness of her fingers on the back of his hand, and she had looked into his eyes and told him off for being such a mean son of a bitch - quite rightly so.

And what the fuck had that been before he had walked away? What business had he acting like some suave little lover boy - oh he was fucking pathetic.

What was worse, Sandor had gone to bed thinking of her - the way her hair had shone like spun copper in the setting sun, the shape of her sweet pink mouth as she had talked and the way her deep blue eyes had grown soft with compassion as she had listened.

He had thought of her body too, long and lean and so graceful - she was tall, and still so tiny next to him, it would be no effort at all for him to lift her in his arms.

Sandor had gone to bed hard - wanting her, hating himself for it and he had willed it away with the kind of discipline born of years of strict physical training and mental admonition. What the fuck was wrong with him?

There was a reason Sansa and the rest of the girls were there on the island - and whether or not she wanted lasting love or a week of fun and fucking, she was there to find it with one of those jumped up pretty boy idiots, not him.

Sandor had woken up hard too, so hard he thought his cock might split and fall off. Unable to take it any longer he had fucked into his fist, hating himself for thinking of the feeling of her hand on his. He had come with a long shuddering groan, not caring that he had spilled himself all over the crisp clean sheets.

It was a fucking mess - and it would only get worse.

-

Brienne is a little nervous.

First thing in the morning, she takes the small roofless service truck that belongs to the retreat down to Omboru’s tiny airport. Travellers and the young people that come to stay usually arrive at the retreat by bus - it’s not a long distance from the airport, but well worth the drive when you’ve got luggage to carry.

It’s been almost six months since she last saw Jaime, but she doubts there’s a detail of his face she’s forgotten - and her heart seems to flutter in her chest at the thought of seeing him again. She taps her hands on the steering wheel as she pulls the truck onto the tarmac and watches as two workers are just rolling a portable staircase up to the side of a small airplane.

Brienne’s hands still for a moment, gripping the wheel before she kills the engine, hops out of the truck and comes to lean against the hood of the truck to wait. The first people off the plane she doesn’t recognise, ten college aged kids dressed in shorts and swimwear, likely off to join the hundred or so that are already at the retreat. Next comes a tight faced, serious man wearing a sombre grey suit - entirely unbefitting the island’s climate or character, he’s talking over his shoulder to another man and oh -

It’s Jaime.

Brienne isn’t sure but she thinks she might have melted - her soul may have well and truly up and floated away without a body to anchor her to the earth.

He’s perfect. Even as he raises his right arm in greeting and she sees the tight white scarring at the end of his wrist where his hand had once been. He smiles radiantly at her then, hitching his bag over his shoulder and tossing his golden hair from his face.

She thinks she must’ve smiled back - she isn’t sure, Brienne can no longer feel her face for the heat of the blush that colours her cheeks. She can’t seem to feel her hands either as she gives him a clumsy wave in return and her feet feel large and ungainly as she moves towards him.

“Hello, wench,” Jaime says before he pulls her against him for a rib-crushing hug.

He’s maybe an inch or two shorter, nothing significant, and when he hugs her, Brienne’s nose is smushed into his hair. She takes a deep breath to calm herself and finds only the scent of him.

“Hello, Jaime,” she says and though she knows her freckled cheeks are still flushed brightly, she sounds far more calm than she feels.

The stern man from the airplane is standing next to them and he clears his throat as if to remind the two of them that anything else in the world exists.

“Right!” Jaime says, stepping back and turning to the man, “Stannis - this is Brienne, our brilliant director. Brienne meet Stannis, one of our commercial sponsors.”

“Hello,” he says cooly, giving her a brief but firm handshake. “Jaime was just telling me how skilled you are, it’s unfortunate that you won’t be with us tomorrow evening.”

Brienne leads them both to the truck and tosses their bags into the back. Jaime hops up into the box of the truck so that Stannis can take the seat next to the driver’s. As she goes to start the truck, she turns to look at Jaime suspiciously.

“What’s happening tomorrow?”

“Nothing yet,” Jaime says in such a way that makes her think she’s not going to like what he’s about to say. “Stannis would like to hold a celebration, in truth, something of a promo for their newest product - you know, film a little drinking and dancing, island style. He - uh, brought a little to share.”

One of the workers that had rolled the staircase to the side of the plane is wheeling a cart across the tarmac towards them and Jaime waves him over. Brienne watches as the man loads ten cases each stamped with the same words into the back of the truck next to Jaime.

“Jaime, what is this?” Brienne asks, before turning in her seat to pop open the top of a box. She pulls out a tall cylindrical bottle with an acid green label lettered neatly in black and gold.

“That’s a bottle of Blackwater,” Stannis says, “a hundred of them to be exact, from our brand new Green Label.”

“More alcohol, exactly what this island needs,” she mutters under her breath before replacing the bottle and turning in her seat to start the truck. “What did you have in mind for the promo?”

Stannis looks toward the sea for a moment before answering.

“I thought perhaps a bonfire on the beach.”

 

-

 

Sansa has always liked horses.

She’s never been the best rider, but she had always enjoyed watching her brothers and sisters ride, even visiting the stables though as a girl she had thought it mucky and smelly. Later that morning after her call with Robb, Dany had found Sansa reading on the deck outside their cabin and asked if she’d like to visit the horses.

She had been surprised to learn that there were stables at the retreat but Dany had said she had only been told because they were 'under contractual obligation to alert her prior to her date'. That afternoon, she was scheduled for horseback riding with Joffrey.

Dany had wanted to go down and see the horses before riding later in the day and since Sansa had no plans - she wasn’t to film her third date until later that day, she had happily agreed.

Sansa had asked Dany how her night had gone - whether or not her intent to pace herself was working and she had told her that though she had not been dancing and drinking she had still been up late. Dany had met a girl called Missandei who had noticed her unusual choice of pool-side reading and they had talked long into the night.

When her friend had returned the question, Sansa couldn’t stop that little secret smile from returning and Dany had swatted her on the arm, her violet eyes widening with excitement.

“I know that look - tell me everything,” she had said imploringly but Sansa had refused.

Dany had pestered her all the way down to the path to the stables until Sansa had come to a stop outside the wide open doors.

“There’s not much to say,” she had offered - which wasn’t true at all, but how was she to explain what had happened between her and Sandor the night before?

In truth, it had been hard to stop thinking about him. Sansa had thought about his horrifying story and the way he had spoken to her in a way he never had to anyone else and she had thought about the way he had listened to her, clever to notice little details and ask her to go on as though it was a pleasure to him just to listen to the sound of her voice.

When she had thought of how terribly scarred his face was, how he had looked at her at times with such rage in his eyes it was almost too hard to bear, Sansa found that she did not think of him with pity or fear, only with hope that he would find his peace. She had hoped too, that perhaps she had helped.

She had surprised herself with another turn her thoughts had taken too - when Sansa thought of how warm his skin had felt as she had touched him and the sheer breadth of his well-honed body, she had felt the tiniest spark of desire warm low in her belly.

What could she tell Dany?

“Hardly, a girl doesn’t smile like that when there’s nothing to say,” Dany had said as they entered the stables and wandered up the aisle. She had led Sansa to a stall with a small painted board above the gate that read ‘Silver’.

The horse was one of the most beautiful Sansa had ever seen - a beautiful white mare with a mane that matched Dany’s own white-blonde hair. Silver was friendly too, and more than pleased to allow the girls to enter her stall, nuzzling at them and blowing happily as they patted her flank.

“I think someone thought this through,” Sansa had said, looking at Dany leaning her face next to Silver’s. “You are going to look like a goddess riding that horse naked.”

The girls had laughed then, and Sansa had felt relieved that for the moment, Dany had not pressed her any further. They had been ready to head back to the main hall for lunch, even though if given the chance, Sansa thought her friend might stay all day with the beautiful mare, when they had heard voices and the sounds of two people entering through the wide stable doors.

-

“Mother seems to think she’s going to tell me which of the the stupid tarts I’ll pick,” says a voice they both recognise. It’s Joffrey and he sounds both petulant and sneering. “It’s my show and I’ll pick who I like but mother keeps saying it’s got to be the Tyrell girl or her grandmother will be after me. I’d like to see her try, the washed-up old hag. Margaery was fair enough I suppose, decent teats - the Stark girl’s were a nicer though -“

There’s a heavy bang - the sound of something dropping, maybe breaking, and the horses give a little start in their stalls. Dany looks at her, eyebrows raised in shock and Sansa shakes her head, her skin crawls at the sound of his voice but she doesn’t want Joffrey to find them here.

“Watch out will you - still drunk from last night, I bet. Where did you get off to anyway? I don’t mind having Payne around in the evenings but he scares away the girls. How am I supposed to get my cock wet with that grisly bastard following me around - even you’re better company than him.”

“Nowhere,” a deep voice rasps in reply, making Sansa jump. “I don’t drink anymore.”

“That’s right, dog - I’d forgotten you used to be a drunkard.” Joffrey says and they can hear the sound of two pairs of feet move along the straw covered floor to stand in front of the horse he would be riding later that day. “Ah - this one I think. Well, I’ll just have to see what this last little tart is like, maybe I’ll get a proper fucking out of her. I’d thought maybe the Tyrell girl, but I’d have to shove my prick in her mouth just to shut her up, and I'd've liked to have the Stark girl only it's a pity she’s stupider than this ugly beast. I’d fuck her anyway though -”

“Enough!”

Sansa hears him spit the word, Sandor’s voice low and biting but absolutely furious. She can only imagine the rage in his eyes as he looks down at him. They hear the sound of scuttling feet as though Joffrey has backed away frightened.

There’s silence for a moment save for the sound of the horses stomping and snorting their disapproval at the noise. Dany lays her hand on Silver’s nose to calm her.

Joffrey is either very brave or piteously foolish - Sansa believes wholeheartedly it’s the latter. He laughs, a high pitched little ‘hah’ before he carries on, with more of a sneer than before.

“Do you think Mother didn’t tell me what would happen to you if I got sick of your hideous face - I say one word to her and you’ll go back to where my uncle found you, rotting in a cell, ready to hang for murder,” the thought of it seems to give his voice strength. “Just think of that the next time you want to speak out of turn.”

"Then I'll remember to keep my mouth shut next time."

There’s a muffled sort of thump followed by the sound of Joffrey hitting the floor of the stables and skidding backward in the dust.

“I'll have her,” Joffrey shouts and Sansa hears the sound of him spitting onto to the ground before he adds, “that Stark bitch and anyone else - you can play the knight all you want but they'll never want you and if you think otherwise then you’re stupider than you are ugly!”

\- - -

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> just a couple things - this is my favourite chapter so far hope you all liked it.
> 
> many of you noted how sandor was there to save the day and how much of an arse harry is - and i will tell you, i wanted sandor to come to her rescue in a completely non-violent way, something a little more lighthearted.
> 
> things are gonna get a little darker the next chapter or two, but don't forget sansa has her third date coming up ;)
> 
> love you all for reading and commenting!


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaime gives Brienne a pep talk, the girls put their heads together and Joffrey has a tantrum.

Brienne had tried her best to set her worries aside.

It was a mark of how little she or Jaime cared for CRTV's top rated dating program that they were willing to leave the final two segments of Joffrey’s special episode in the hands of her sometimes timid assistant Pod. She had tried to tell herself that he would be fine. She wasn’t worried about his work - Brienne was confident that Pod would make a great director one day, but she was worried that without her presence behind the camera, Joffrey would take the opportunity to cause real trouble.

She had almost convinced herself that things would be alright, that Pod could handle it, that Sandor had heeded her words and would try to keep Joffrey on a tighter leash - that the retreat would survive two nights without her. She had almost believed it until Stannis Baratheon had arrived.

Stannis and his ten cases of Blackwater rum.

Once she had settled Stannis in a rarely used guest cabin on the far side of the retreat, she had rounded on Jaime, demanding explanation.

"How could you agree to this!?"

Jaime had shrugged and she had wanted to hit him.

"He's Robert's brother."

"I don't care if he's Robert Baratheon himself back from the dead!"

"Fine, fine - I invited him out here as sort of a peace offering,” Jaime had run a hand through his hair, looking away uncomfortably. “He's contesting Robert's will. Cersei hasn't shut up about it. I think she spends half her time in Tyrion's office these days," he had given a long-suffering kind of sigh. "I suggested that if we do a promo for Blackwater perhaps he could lay off a little."

“Robert’s will - this is about Joffrey's inheritance?"

Brienne had hardly found that a compelling enough reason.

"No - well, yes - it's about Myrcella and Tommen and getting Cersei out of Tyrion's office - he hasn't shut up about how much he wants rid of the whole thing."

He had looked at her long and hard then. Brienne had known somewhere hidden underneath this ridiculous plan and Jaime's half formed jokes there was something raw and sensitive here. It was something she had known not press.

That still hadn't stopped her taking offence to the promo itself and she changed tack.

“Still! How can you expect me to leave when Stannis wants to start handing out bottles of rum and light a massive fire on the beach?"

"You make him sound like a madman!"

"What part of rum and bonfire sounds sane to you?"

“He's not mad,” Jaime had laughed, almost relieved they were back to sparring. "He's one of the most serious men I've ever met, he doesn't even drink."

“He is if he thinks I’m going to let him get away with it, and you are too. I can’t, Jaime - you’re never here, you don’t see how it can get - it’s rowdy enough on a regular night,” she had sighed heavily, pausing as she zipped her overnight bag. Jaime hoisted the bag off the bed and slung it over his shoulder. “These kids don’t stop - when a few of them get tired, more show up off the mainland ready to keep the party going and it’s only been worse with Joffrey here.”   

It was different fighting with him in person, Brienne had decided. Over the phone, she only had his voice to combat, deep and deliciously smooth as it was. In person, she could hardly let herself look at him too long before the red-hot flush of her cheeks betrayed her.

“Can you actually get away with calling them kids - I don’t think you’re significantly older than a single one of them here,” Jaime had said unhelpfully, ushering her out of the cabin and out onto the path back to her little truck. He had placed both hand and stump on her shoulders, guiding Brienne toward the driver's side, and had thrown her bag in next to his. “I, on the other hand - wait, never mind scratch that -”

The best way to get to Walano was by passenger ferry. They had needed to leave promptly in order to catch the next ferry but Brienne wasn’t going to let him bully her.

“Jaime, please -“ she had started, but he had come to stand in front of her, gripping her shoulders once more and fixed her intently with his bright green eyes.

“You are not responsible for everything that happens here, Brienne,” he had said firmly, ensuring that she was listening. “It is wonderfully admirable and more than most would do in your position, but it is not your job.”

She had stepped back a little, it was easier to focus when there was a little distance between them. It hadn't helped. Jaime had not let go of her and suddenly all Brienne wanted was to fall into him and feel his hard muscled chest pressed against hers - his arms tight around her, like he had done at the airport. Jaime had gone on.

“You are a brilliant director - but you are a film director, not a director of saving people from themselves - you are here to make wildly successful trash television for my family’s monstrous media network, and however uninspiring you find the work, you always do a unbelievably brilliant job.”

He had touched her face then, swiping a little of her straw-blonde hair from her eyes and sliding his hand to rest on her cheek to keep her from looking away. Her freckled cheeks had flushed all the more.

“You are going to leave this island for two days and I hope you can leave your overdeveloped sense of responsibility along with it - I didn’t set this up so you could spend two days drowning in your own guilt - I suggested you because it’s time everyone sees what you're really made of.”

It had been an unbelievable pep talk. She had even managed to nod, giving him a shaky smile.

“Alright, wench?” He had said and then wonderfully, he had hugged her.

Brienne's spirits had been raised considerably, but here was no way Jaime would truly be able to convince her to let go completely. What he had said had rung true - the next two days could make all the difference to the rest of her career and she wasn’t going to put her best foot forward with her mind back at the retreat.

It was a good thing then, that Brienne had not seen the tiny private plane that had arrived just after she and Jaime had boarded the ferry.

-

It’s a monumental amount of work - to read a script and work through how she’ll direct this episode with two only two days of filming. The good thing is, the production team has left notes, and on top of that, they've taken care of the technical aspect too, everything and everyone, crew and equipment, is ready and waiting for them when they arrive.

It is up to Brienne to make her stylistic mark on the episode and tell the story from her eyes.

Jaime acts as her assistant, doing the jobs that Pod normally does when they film for CRTV. She suspects he rather likes the way she bosses him around on set - he certainly seems happy to do her bidding and to get involved with the members of the crew.

Why he spends his time locked him away in an office in King's Landing is a mystery to Brienne.

Jaime seems so alive out here on location, so natural working on set and helping with the various pieces of equipment, assisting with the sound, running cables for lights, simply lifting and moving and talking and he’s good at it too - even one-handed. In no time he's fit himself seamlessly into the group and by the end of the day, you would never know he was a hot-shot producer rather than a seasoned crewmember.

She finds herself watching him in between filming scenes, reviewing the playback and shouting direction. To Brienne, he seems happier than she's ever known him at work and she wonders if a new opportunity wouldn't benefit him too.

He catches her, only once though - Brienne is careful not to embarrass herself, but when he does, Jaime grins.

"Wouldn't it be fantastic," he says coming to stand next to her under the shade of a tarp, taking a gulp of water from a plastic bottle and offering it to share, "if you could have me around all the time? I like our phone calls, wench, don't get me wrong, but it's nothing to having you in person."

Brienne takes the water from him, and when Jaime goes back to setting the lights for their next scene, she upends the bottle into her hands, splashing the cool water over her face and down her neck.

How did he always manage to make it sound like there was something more between them than there really was?

 

-

 

Sansa and Dany had taken the path from the stables down toward the main hall to look for Brienne but they had not found her.

Instead they had run into her assistant Pod on the way there, who informed them that Brienne had left the island and wouldn’t return until the day after tomorrow. He would be taking over for her and filming the final two segments. He hadn’t looked at all surprised when they told him they were dropping out on account of Joffrey’s disgusting behaviour.

Sansa felt conflicted, as disastrous as her first two dates had been, she had been determined to see the experience through. Dany had been angry, and rightly so - there was no way, she said, she was going anywhere near the sick little creep again.

Even though Sansa agreed with her, she couldn’t help but wonder if they were missing out on an opportunity by quitting.

Margaery seemed to agree.

They had found her back at the cabin, kneeling on a bright pink yoga mat, eyes closed in concentration.

 

-

Sansa takes a bottle of water from the fridge and rolls it over her neck and shoulders before she goes out onto the deck. The little beads of water that slide under her top and down her back feel wonderful. She’s grown more accustomed to the heat, these last few years in King’s Landing, but that is nothing compared to the Summer Isles.  
   
Its hot and sticky out on the deck, even though the area is mostly shaded by the cabin's overhanging roof. Sansa stays by the door, unwilling to get between her cabin mates - it’s not just the weather that has become heated.  
   
“You quit?” Margaery says, dropping her shades to look at Dany.  
   
“Of course I did, you should’ve heard the things he was saying, Margie!”  
   
“Oh I can imagine, he’s a sneaky little fuck,” Margaery says placing her hands on the mat and dropping into another pose. “Acts the part of prince charming while he’s busy imagining all the nasty things he’d rather be doing - and I don’t mean nasty in the good way, either.”  
   
Margaery looks up, making the kind of face you might wear after watching someone vomit and catches Sansa's eye. This comes as something of a surprise to Sansa - she had thought that perhaps Margaery had been more willing to overlook pop star Joffrey’s obvious faults.  
   
“He likes to talk enough about it,” Dany says bitterly. “He just got tossed on his arse for mouthing off - not half of what he deserves though."  
   
“And you’re going to pass up the perfect opportunity to give him hell?"  
   
"What do am I supposed to do?" Dany huffs a huge sigh, "we already told Pod we quit."  
   
"Doesn't matter," Margaery says. "Joffrey will know by now and he'll be furious we tried to ruin things for him - so mad I bet he'll be coming after us with whatever he can think of to bend our will."  
   
Sansa agrees - before they had begun filming she had been careful to read the waiver - all the way to the bottom where the print had become tiny and laced with words intended specifically to confuse all but the most careful readers. She isn't a lawyer, but it had been obvious to Sansa that CRTV could and would do anything to protect their interests. This is what Margie means - Joffrey will think he has the legal backing to make them do as he pleases.  
   
"And what I just say oops I changed my mind? That he's not the most revolting, jumped up scumbag creep?"  
   
"That's exactly what we do," Margaery says, turning to Sansa. “You get it don’t you, doll?”  
   
Sansa looks between the two of them, and nods. She's never known anyone as spoiled and arrogant as Joffrey but she has an idea.  
   
"We play stupid," Sansa says, surprising herself with how readily her mind has come up with the answer. "We say what Joffrey wants to hear and if he's as awful as we think he is then he will love to think he's scared us."  
   
Margaery grins at her.  
   
"Exactly," she says, "and he'll be so busy gloating that he won't see us bring him down"

 

-

 

Sandor had been wrong.

He had known that Joffrey would run to his mother, the inflated little shit never could fight his own battles unless they were against someone smaller - that's what he had Sandor for. And for a long time, whether or not it was because the alternative was rotting in Harrenhal until he was hanged for Gregor's murder, Sandor had acted the part of faithful dog.

He had hated the boy no less then, but it had been easier to ignore Joffrey before he had come to this thrice damned island hell. Sandor had never liked the way Joffrey had talked about the girls who fawned over him, or the way that he boasted about what he could make them do, but he had done his job and turned a blind eye.

Sandor remembered his grandfather's words, spoken in the old man's deep gravelly voice - kick a dog one too many times and he'll bite you.

In that case, it was a long time coming, he had thought.

But this hadn't even been about him - even Joffrey's parting words were little more than what he heard before. He could ignore slights about his face, no matter how vile - he could endure insults, and hatred and fear but there was absolutely no way in any of the seven buggering hells that he was going to let Joffrey talk about her like that.

Sansa.

Fucking fuck him bloody sideways to each of the seven sodding hells and buggering back.

The way that Joffrey had talked about the girls - so vulgar and yet so flippant, as though they were only a passably interesting commodity. It disgusted him - disgusted him that Joffrey could speak of her like that after he had seen her, bare and vulnerable and so painfully beautiful as Sandor knew she must be. He talked of Sansa as though she were a thing to be had and thrown away and how dare he - how dare he!

Looking down at the boy on the hay strewn, dusty stable floor he had felt only a little satisfaction. There had been fear in the Joffrey's eyes but only for a moment and Sandor thought he would simply run to mother and weep his crocodile tears.

Sandor had expected a phone call, a reprimand - Cersei could be unreasonable, even maddening when it came to her eldest son, but Sandor only had to speak to Tyrion, as much as he hated the half-man, or even old Tywin, and he would be back to work. Both Joffrey's uncle and his grandfather knew what the boy was capable of and neither were interested in the shitstorm of trouble Joffrey could cause if left unchecked.

Sandor had walked away as the boy had snivelled his insults from the ground and it was a good thing too, if Joffrey had said another word about Sansa, Sandor could've killed him.

The blood was pumping hot and fast in his ears as he reach his cabin and Sandor had changed into his running gear and set out on the trail toward the hills. He had run until he was out of breath and his heart had pounded with something other than anger and the need to rip Joffrey apart with his bare hands.

He had expected to find a missed call from Cersei or Tyrion, even from Tywin himself - Sandor had never yet gone as far as actually hitting Joffrey before - but what he found when he returned to the cabin he, Payne and Joffrey shared was a surprise to say the least.

-

Sandor knows he is without a doubt completely fucked.

Joffrey is yelling, sounding all the more like a spoiled brat than a young man of twenty-one. At first, Sandor thinks he's on the phone, reporting the fight in the stables to his mother but when Sandor hears Cersei respond, with a low cool voice, he knows shit is really about to fly.

And it's not just Cersei either - a second later he hears the raised voice of Tyrion Lannister, Joffrey's uncle and CRTV's legal backbone.

Fuck.

"We will put an end to this ridiculous nonsense and go home," Cersei says as though she's repeating herself. "It is a waste of time with little, if any, benefit to your image."

"No mother - we are going ahead with it, those squawking little cunts don't scare me. They've all signed, if one of them drops out before we're through we can sue, can't we, uncle?"

"We can being that there exists the legal framework to do so - but why you would tire the courts with such a matter is beyond me. I would listen to your mother, boy, and keep your tantrum to yourself," Tyrion says. "And I don't want to hear you use that word to refer to them ever again.”

"Who are you to stop me?"

"Someone who isn't afraid of you for a start and you'll be wise to remember that those of us do exist, unless you need reminding the hard way - for the second time today."

Sandor thinks he hears the sound of Tyrion laughing in Joffrey’s face. He climbs the stairs quietly as he can before coming to stand with his back against the wall next to the open window.

"Where my son is crude in his speech, he has a point - they may be pretty, but they will be easily controlled. If you wish to go ahead with this, Joffrey - taking into account my feelings on the matter, then we shall. We simply have to remind the girls that failure to complete as per their contract will result in legal action. They will comply."

Joffrey exclaimed excitedly at this and Sandor feels his temper rise. It was so like them - so like Cersei to suggest a little good old fashioned manipulation.

"You will film with the Targaryen girl, and the final segment - then we are leaving this island," Cersei says finitely.

Pathetic, Sandor thinks, the boy could frighten them in front of a camera all he wanted, but they were made of tougher stuff than that. Tyrion seems to be laughing again and Sandor wonders if he too has spotted Joffrey's next problem.

"We can tell them to film, threaten to sue and whatever else you like but do you suppose they will do anything but spit on you - do you really think Miss Stark is going to going to choose you as the best of her three suitors?"

"She has to - it's my episode!"

It sounds as though Joffrey has kicked one of the kitchen chairs and there is a clatter as it falls to the floor.

"I'm afraid your poor little ego will have to bear it, you'll be lucky if she doesn't poison your next drink after how you’ve treated her and her friends."

"Well she won't choose that Harry twat, he told me she wouldn't put out, and he marooned her on some fucking island," Joffrey says sulkily, and then his voice brightens. "I know, uncle - why don't you be her third date, she'll take one look at your shrivelled little cock and she'll have to pick me."

Joffrey hits the floor for the second time that day and Sandor hears him yowling in pain.

It's Cersei who speaks next, however and what she says makes Sandor sick with rage.

"Your Hound will do it - his behaviour this morning was unacceptable, and cannot go unpunished. He will do it, or he will go back to Harrenhal - and I honestly doubt the Stark girl is any more likely to choose him than my dear brother."

\- - -

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks to The_Immaculate_Bastard and bgona for encouraging this update.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa prepares for her date, Sandor faces the lions and Brienne has some bad luck.

Sansa has never been snorkelling.

Before she heads down to the docks where her third and final date will take place, Sansa ties her hair in a long plait over her shoulder and makes sure to apply plenty of sunblock. Margaery catches her eye as she leaves the cabin and gives her a thumbs up. Whether it’s for luck, for bravery or for the hope that this final mystery man is at the very least a decent human being, she doesn’t know, but she’ll take it.

She had thought after Joffrey that her second date couldn’t be worse - and while Harry had been initially charming and easy on the eye, he had proved himself to be a complete and total arse. Bachelor number three could be an axe murderer for all she cared so long as he was decent enough not to make her uncomfortable.

As embarrassing as it was to admit, there was still a tiny part of Sansa that hoped that this one would work out even though the game had now changed.

Since she had already had her date with Joffrey, Sansa had thought there wasn’t much she could do by way of ‘bringing him down’ as Margaery had said. Just as they had suspected, Pod had come to the cabin with what he said was bad news - Joffrey and his mother were calling foul, they wanted the girls to proceed with filming.

The look on the assistant director’s face had made her feels so sorry for him that Sansa had insisted they tell Pod what they were planning. She had even apologised for making him the middle man when they had asked him to return their message. Pod was to tell Joffrey and his manager-mother how terribly frightened Sansa, Dany and Margaery were of getting into legal trouble and that they would from now on do just as they were told.

When Pod had asked just what it was they were up to both Margaery and Dany refused to give details. After they had come to an agreement, Margaery had rolled up her yoga mat and gone inside to make a phone call. She hadn’t come out of her room until Sansa had been ready to leave for her date.

On the other hand, Dany had visited the main hall before going back to the stables. She’d seemed incredibly pleased with herself when she had come back from the kitchens with a bag of the hottest chili peppers she could find. Sansa could only imagine what she was going to do with them.

She had thought there wasn’t much more she could do until she remembered that on the day after tomorrow, they were to film the final segment of the episode and it would be up to Sansa to choose from her three suitors. Joffrey would be furious if she didn’t choose him - and not only that, it would no doubt send him into a screaming fit when she looked him in the eye, on camera no less, and told him what a scum bag he was.

Whoever her third date might be, she hoped he was at least a decent human being - Sansa didn’t fancy the idea of choosing Harry the Arse just to make a point, but she would if she had to.

Pod is no Brienne but he seems to be comfortably handling the small crew in her absence. If the director is back before Sansa leaves the island, she’ll remember to tell Brienne that Pod has done his boss proud.

They stand, surrounded by trees just off the beach and for the final time Sansa pulls the ties on her bikini, stepping naked as her name day out onto the sand as Pod counts down on his fingers.

The activity of the day is snorkelling and Sansa is excited to get in the water. She leaves the cover of the trees and walks out onto the sand. On the far side of the beach, there’s a long thin dock that stretches far out into the turquoise water and at the end, there’s a man waiting for her, sitting on the edge with his feet in the water.

Sansa stops short and gives a little gasp of surprise. That can’t be right, she thinks, she must be mistaken - there’s no way he would…

Though his back is turned and he faces out toward the sea, Sansa recognises the shape of his body, his long dark hair and the three running dogs that are inked onto his right arm. What is more - she notes, as her belly gives a great swoop at the thought, she can see that Sandor is just as naked as she is.

Sansa had been nervous before she had faced Joffrey and then again when she had met Harry. She was proud of her body, she was healthy and fit - she knew she was beautiful and she had known they had thought so too, but there had been something shy and playful about being naked then. Her nerves were born of the act itself being so wild and freeing.

This doesn’t feel like that at all.

She can feel her heartbeat in her fingertips, every whisper of wind that tickles her hair across her back, the smooth wood of the dock under her feet and the warm kiss of the sun on her bare skin but as Sandor turns to look at her, each and every sensation is nothing, nothing compared to the feeling of his eyes on her.

 

-

 

Sandor has never been a nervous man.

He’s never been a coward either, so when he entered his cabin a few minutes after Cersei had announced her plan, he faced them so impassively it had been impossible to tell that he knew what was coming. The boy had wanted retribution - he had wanted to see Sandor squirm as his mother had doled out reprimands for hurting her son, but Joffrey's wish had not been granted.

Sandor had stared back cooly, even when Cersei had delivered the final blow. Joffrey had glowered from atop the kitchen counter, arms crossed and looking all the more sulky and shortchanged the longer Sandor had not reacted. It was obvious that Cersei intended to humiliate him with her ultimatum - what business had he, a scarred old dog, playing such a frivolous game meant only for the beautiful and the carefree?

It stung him, to be sure, but he could take it and it wasn't worth going back to jail over - he had long since proved he could survive anything, didn’t they know that by now?

Sandor had been able to remain indifferent until Cersei was done. He had given brusk affirmation that he would do as he was told, but her parting comments had tested him sorely.

“Poor child,” Cersei had said to Joffrey, as Sandor had turned to leave the cabin - loud enough to make sure he was still listening. “Can you imagine the look of fright on the girl’s face? Do you think she’ll scream when she sees him?”

He had felt Joffrey glare at him.

“Perhaps she’ll cry, mother, and the dog will see for himself what I've been saying all along.”

He hated the lot of them - damn them all to the seven hells.

When it came time, Sandor had undone his shorts and tossed them aside onto the sand, walking resolutely out toward the end of the dock where he was to wait for her.

He could ignore his own discomfort but he hated the way they had made her - Sansa - into some kind of plaything for Joffrey’s amusement. She had come to the island to free her spirit and to search for love, and even though he had sneered at her when she had told him, he hated them all for trying to take that away from her.

And simply by existing, Sandor would ruin her foolish dream - she would be expecting another young handsome boy, and would surely be disappointed when she found him instead.

He didn’t even want to think about what it would be like to look at her in return. He didn’t have the right to see her like that, whole and so beautiful and bare - he wasn’t worthy, Gods knew who was, but it wasn’t him.

When Sandor had reached the end of the dock he had laid down a towel and sat with his back to the beach behind him and his legs in the water. He was determined to be respectful, he wouldn’t slobber and stare like those idiot boys but as sure as he was to remain honourable, he was also a realistic man.

Sandor would let himself look - but only once.

-

Brienne and the crew had made camp just before dark.

The little village nearest the set wasn't nearly well equipped enough to host more than a couple visitors at a time, so most of the crew had stayed behind to set up tents. Everyone was quite good natured about it and Brienne had even looked forward to spending the night outside.

She hadn't been camping since she was a child. Her father had liked to take her and her brother into the woods around the island where she grew up, but their last trip had been the year her brother, Galladon, had died.

It had been hard not to think of him. When the excitement of the days work had died down and she had settled on the ground, back against a fallen log, to watch the campfire the crew had built, she had remembered the two of them playing together, running, laughing, being scolded by their father for getting too close to the fire.

Her brother had drowned. Almost twenty years had passed since but she could still remember waking up, coughing and sputtering, washed up on the rocky beach. Her coughing had turned to wailing and then to tears when she had spotted him silent and unmoving nearby.

"What are you thinking of?" Jaime asks, as he sits on the ground next to her. He has sausages in his hand and two sharpened sticks on which to roast them tucked under his arm.

She smiles a little sadly and shrugs.

"My brother."

"I didn't know you've got a brother,” he sounds excited, “older or younger?"

"He was older.”

"Oh. Brienne, I'm sorry."

"It was a long time ago," she says taking one of the sticks and poking a sausage onto the sharpened end. She hands it to Jaime before doing the same for herself.

Brienne doesn't want to talk about it. She doesn't want to drag up sad memories after such an uplifting day. It's nice to know, she thinks as Jaime watches her with genuine concern, that he would listen if she had.

"You've been looking after me all day," Brienne says, directing their conversation toward something harmless. She leans forward to hold her stick over the fire.

"Someone must! If you keep neglecting yourself, wench, you might start to shrink."

Jaime shifts closer to her so that their legs touch.

"That would hardly be a problem."

“Well I think it would - I happen to like you just as you are,” he says, bumping his shoulder into hers. The fire pops and hisses then, as one of the sausages drips into the embers.

Jaime is so near she only has to turn her head to meet him eye to eye and she blinks, pulling away - it had looked for a second like he might...

“You can't keep this up,” Brienne says abruptly, keeping her voice low as a few of the crew begins to gather around the fire.

“What - keep what up?”

“I’m a terrible liar, Jaime, you know that - and I can’t pretend this doesn’t affect me.”

“What doesn't?”

Gods, she thinks, he better not be playing dumb.

“You’re acting like you…”

Not only is Brienne a poor liar, but she's also, apparently a coward. Her cheeks flush red and hot as her words trail off into a heavy silence.

Jaime sighs - he greets at a few of the crew nearby before speaking to her so low and soft his voice is lost in the sound of the crackling flames.

“Do you ever have those moments when you look at your life and wonder how the fuck you got to where you are?”

“All the time,” she replies uncertain of what he's getting at. “Why do you think I keep telling you I quit.”

He gives a odd sort of laugh.

"And you think ‘it's not so bad, I can carry on like this a while longer' - and then you wake up one day somewhere in the deepest pit of hell wondering why you didn't get out when you still could?”

The firelight reflects gold in his brilliant green eyes, but he looks sad and almost far away. Brienne nods, laying her hand on his injured arm and gripping his wrist. It is nice, she thinks, having him here in person - maybe even too nice.

“You know about how Cersei and I… I remember the night I told you,” Jaime draws a long, heavy breath and looks at her as though he's speaking of things he’d rather leave unsaid. “There’s more.”

Of course Brienne knew about Jaime’s glamorous step sister - she had even seen her once getting off of their family’s little private plane one of the first times Jaime had come to assess her work. The woman was beyond beautiful, much the same way Jaime was - on the outside, they were perfectly matched.

During a long and difficult conversation many months ago, Jaime had admitted to her that they had been together, even as she married Robert. They had been in love - and he had thought that love could weather anything. Jaime hadn't said so but Brienne knew their affair had ended messily, some time after he had lost his hand.

Suddenly, she knows what he's trying to tell her - remembering his concern over the children and Robert's will, and the way he had seemed so pained and almost helpless. She finds she doesn't need to hear it.

"It's alright," she says and he looks at her sharply.

"Is it? I was under the impression we'd discovered that until recently my life has been an abject disaster," he scoffs, but there's no real fight in him. "Three children, Brienne, two I hardly know because she won't let me see them anywhere other than miserable family functions - hell Tyrion spends more time with them than I do and the other, well, you've met Joffrey, that's enough said..."

“He’s nothing like you,” Brienne says instead, as if by way of comfort. “He might look like you - but I’ve spent time with him, and he’s not you. You might have fathered him, but you didn't raise him to be that way."

"No, but I am responsible for bringing that into the world."

"You're a mess, Jaime, but you're a good man even if that's not always readily apparent - I've found it in myself to like you anyhow."

Jaime looks at her darkly, but he's smiling. There's another moment where he seems about to move - as though he just might kiss her, and Brienne still can't quite believe it - no matter how he's looking at her. She wonders what might've happened if they weren't surrounded by people.

"Well," he says, clearing his throat, "what I had meant to say, was that things were a frightful mess for a long time. When this happened," he says ruefully, lifting his stump to indicate the accident, "I realised I had better climb my way out of hell, cut away all the shit and keep only what was good for me. As it turns out - you’re very, very good for me, Brienne.”

They had burnt their sausages, but somehow, it had tasted good all the same

Brienne had zipped herself into her tent a few hours later feeling strangely lighthearted - they still had not properly addressed whatever it was that was growing between them, but it truly felt as though they would get there.

-

 

At first, when she wakes, Brienne wonders how the sound of the storm had not stirred her earlier. The heavy raindrops beat steadily on the canvas above her head and the wind rumbles with intermittent crashes of thunder. For a moment she cannot place what it is that’s wrong but then suddenly, she’s sitting up, her head brushing against the low roof of her tent.

A rather considerable amount of cool rain water has pooled in the bottom of her tent, saturating her sleeping bag and the clothes she’s wearing too. She pushes wet tendrils of hair from her face and gropes in the dark for her pack on the other side of the tent.

“Seven hells,” she groans, finding her pack just as wet.

She pulls a flashlight from and outer pocket, shining it first at the walls of the tent and then up to the low-hanging roof. Some time during the night, it appears that a seam has split and Brienne reaches up to pull at the fabric, wondering - hoping, that perhaps she might be able to close the gap at least for the duration of the storm.

“Seven fucking hells!” she curses as the great puddle of water that has collected on the tent roof pours down over her head.

Brienne spits rain water from her mouth and wipes at her face to push her wet hair out the way and clear her eyes. She sits for a moment, almost stunned - what the hell is she supposed to do now?

Like Brienne, the rest of the crew are camping the night in tents - those that aren’t are staying in the little town nearby. She supposes she might be able to make it - it’s dark, but it’s not a far walk and she does have a flashlight.

Had, that is - Brienne swears again as the waterlogged flashlight in her hand flickers and dies out. She chucks it aside in frustration and hears a mocking little splash as it lands in a puddle of water.

Desperate times, she tells herself, as she puts on her shoes and unzips the tent. The ground outside her tent is damp, and through the flicker of lightning she can see the tents around her illuminated with each strike. It isn’t a heavy storm - but there's certainly more than enough rain to want to stay outside.

She pauses, eyeing the tent next to hers as heavy droplets roll down her face and drip from her hair.

Brienne is not a presumptuous person. Even after their conversation by the fire, she cannot - will not, assume that it is acceptable to barge into Jaime’s tent. Even though the night is warm, the rain itself is cold, and as she drops to her knees and unzips his tent with shaking hands, she hopes he’ll forgive her.

She pushes her head and arms through the opening of the tent, feeling around in the dark and grabs hold of what feels like a foot.

“Jaime,” she whispers, then again more loudly.

His head rises above the cover of his sleeping bag before she hears him reach for a flashlight. He shines it in her face and Brienne blinks hard.

“Wench? Is it raining?” His voice is heavy and sleepy, and he rolls back to prop himself up on both elbows.

“I need your help.”

“What’s wrong?” He asks, suddenly more alert, sitting straighter and scooting backwards to make room for her. “Come in, gods, don’t be ridiculous, get in here.”

It’s a small tent, and neither Brienne nor Jaime are exactly small people, but she manages to pull herself in on shivering limbs and turns to zip the doorway closed behind her.

He reaches out to her then, catching a few locks of her hair between his fingers and pulls back surprised.

“Good Gods, you’re soaked.”

“That piece of shite tent is leaking,” Brienne says, wondering when the last time was she swore so much in a single evening. “I’m sorry I woke you, my flashlight died and I didn’t fancy stumbling about in the dark.”

She feels as though she needs to explain, that there really is good reason for her to be invading his space - that she would never, ever presume otherwise.

Jaime, thankfully, seems to understand her intent, though she thinks she sees the glint of an amused smile.

“Do you have a change of clothes?” He asks and she shakes her head.

“My bag is soaked through - I left my valuables locked up in one of the equipment cases,” Brienne groans again, realising her mistake. “Oh Gods, I could have unlocked one of the boxes and taken a spare tent.”

“And somehow you ended up here instead,” Jaime laughs at her.

“I’m sorry I woke you - please, go back to sleep, I’ll -”

“You’ll stay. Do you hear me complaining. Everyone should be so lucky to have the girl of their dreams, crawl wet and willing into their bed.”

“Would you mind not teasing me just now, please?”

Did he really have to do this now, of all times?

Jaime drops the flashlight on top of his sleeping bag and fumbles with the zip on his pack, pulling out a tshirt and handing it to her.

“Put this on - you’ll never warm up in those wet clothes.”

Brienne stalls, suddenly nervous - and as if he knows what’s she thinking, Jaime switches off the flashlight throwing the tent into darkness.

Her hands shake with cold and it’s no easy task pulling off her tshirt and shorts. Sitting in only her smallclothes, Brienne feels all the more self-conscious. Whatever her fantasies of Jaime have been - none of them have ever included her wearing a well-loved pink sports bra. As quickly as she can, she takes that off too and pulls his tshirt over her head.

“Better?” He asks, his voice deep and rough, and though she cannot see the details of his face, she knows he’s looking at her. “I’m sorry that’s all I’ve got - it might be a little rank, that’s the one I was wearing all day.”

Jaime is right, the shirt smells - but it is in such a way, deep and musky, that makes Brienne shiver as she breathes it in.

“It’s just fine - thank you, Jaime,” she manages to say.

Brienne feels him shift to one side and pull back the mouth of his sleeping bag.

“Put that wet stuff outside and get in here - we’ve got to warm you up.”

 

\- - -

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh dear, seems I'm going to make you wait another chapter for naked sansan - but JB is coming along nicely and they deserved some attention this time round. I didn't feel like dealing with the added implications of incest, so Cersei is the stepsister here. Nevermind, let's see if JB can't find a good way to stay warm, hmm?
> 
> I don't make any claims at being the most skilled writer, and I'm sure we can agree this whole idea is more than a bit nonsense, so I really truly appreciate all of your likes and comments. 
> 
> Special thanks to ladycyprus for the little nudge.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaime reflects, Sandor tells a story and finally, the date you've all been waiting for.

Sansa stops halfway down the dock.

The intensity of it is almost overwhelming - but a second later, he turns his head and then Sandor is standing and facing her and good gods, there he is for her to see.

He's the Warrior himself, she thinks as she watches him rise to his feet - he's fearsome and yet so graceful and Sansa can't help but see beauty in the power and build of his body.

Arya would sometimes call her prudish and tease Sansa about the fact that she was less experienced with boys than her little sister. Sansa had seen naked men before - she certainly appreciated the male body too but there's something so different about looking at Sandor now.

His hair, long and straight against his shoulders and coarsely patterned down his hard muscled chest, over his arms, his legs and groin - stands out black against his skin along with the tattoos on both arms. Those three running dogs, and others too Sansa hasn't yet had the time to study. What would it be like to run her hands over the hard planes of his chest, to feel the hair tickle under his fingertips, to feel the strong beat of his heart as he looked down at her with those stormy grey eyes. 

She lets her eyes drift downward, more slowly than she knows is polite and looks at him fully. Sansa is hardly an expert but she knows Sandor is more than impressive - tall and broad as he it's no surprise to find him well proportioned. Not only that, it shocks her to think that if aroused, his... well it would only grow. He would fill her surely, if he even fit at all - and Gods help her, why is she even thinking that at all?

Her eyes travel down his legs, so thick and strong, to his long bare feet where droplets of water still cling to the hairs there and glitter on his skin, and then back up again until Sansa is looking into his eyes.

Her lips are parted and she can't remember the last time she blinked, but even as he stands so still in front of her, Sandor drops his chin just slightly so that the length of his hair falls over his face.

No, Sansa thinks, somehow that isn't right - he shouldn't hide.

How must it feel, she wonders, to be so self-conscious, to call yourself ugly - to constantly hear insults and jabs at your appearance and then stand completely without anything to hide behind - surely he would never choose this for himself… He's so brave, she thinks, so beautiful in his own way.

Sansa decides that is a question for another time and perhaps, if she’s feeling braver too, she’ll ask him how he came to be here - but right now, they both need a little distraction. She had been so caught up in looking at him, exploring Sandor top to toe with her eyes, that she had almost forgotten that she too stands just as naked.

Her heart leaps, begins to race - hoping that like her, Sandor has been pleasantly surprised.

“Hello again,” Sansa says, walking toward him, suddenly so nervous that her voice comes small and soft. “So… have you ever been snorkelling?"

-

Sandor doesn’t know what the hell had come over him.

He had just stood there as she had stared at him, and though it had only been a moment until she was closing the distance between them and smiling shyly, it had been longer than was polite - and certainly longer than he had expected. Let her look her fill - what difference did it make, he had thought bitterly. Let the little bird look and know once and for all he was scarred and fearsome inside and out, just as Joffrey had said.

The image of her naked, windswept and sun kissed walking towards him along that dock would be seared into his mind for the rest of his days. Sansa was fucking perfection - so finely made it was a wonder she was real at all. Sandor had stayed true to his word though and once she had reached him at the end of the dock, he had looked nowhere but her face.

There had been nothing but to get through the next few hours - that and keep his cock from swelling at the thought of her. But that wasn’t as difficult as one might think - Sandor had only to remind himself what would be waiting for him if he didn’t see this ridiculous farce through to the end.

He didn’t know why he still put up with their shit. More and more often he had begun to wonder whether it was worth it - surely life in prison couldn’t be much worse than doing the Lannister’s dirty deeds. But it was those very deeds that made him question whether the imp lawyer’s assurance that Sandor wouldn’t hang was so true after all. A jury might not convict him for Gregor’s murder but he had hardly lived an innocent life since then.

When Tyrion had first approached him, Sandor had been taken aback by the Lannisters interest but he had been told what with his impressive military background, strict training and excellent record, he was just what they needed. They had been so interested in fact, that they had done whatever necessary to release him. In turn, Sandor had done things for them he didn’t care to admit. He wasn’t proud of it, but being the Lannister’s dog had suited him far better than rotting in a cell or hanging for his brother’s worthless life.

When Sansa had reminded him that they were meant to be snorkelling he had come crashing back to reality, remembering the camera behind them. It was lucky to be in the sea, he had smirked, thinking of Joffrey who would be prancing around on a horse with his snotty arse stuck to a hot leather saddle. In a second they would be in the water and he could almost pretend they were just out for a swim.

Sansa had dived into the water as gracefully as the mermaid from his dream and he had followed her.

-

They are both far more relaxed in the water. This far out, it's deep enough that neither can touch the rocky sand at the bottom and they hang onto the dock, kicking their flippered feet.

As it turns out, Sansa has never done this before, and so when she fumbles with the slippery rubber mask, Sandor helps her fit it over her head, savouring the brief touch of her silky hair before he puts on his own. It's uncomfortable, clinging to his damaged skin, but he's grateful for the fact that with the goggles on, there's a little less of his face exposed.

He can see her eyes widen behind the clear plastic window, mouthpiece dangling next to her face, as she looks at him and her pretty pink mouth folds up as though she's fighting to keep her expression neutral.

He feels a familiar heat rise up his neck that has nothing to do with the sun.

"What?" He snaps angrily - he knows that look, he's seen it before. "If you came wanting a pretty view, you'd best look away, cause you're sure as hell not going to find it here."

Sansa seems startled, frightened even, and what a spectacular fucking way to start things off - but damn her, damn her to hell if she's going to laugh at him, especially now with everyone watching.

"Oh, no I was just - I didn't mean - I just didn’t think it would be possible for anyone to look so intimidating with these silly goggles on," she says hastily. With the mask on, her eyebrows all but disappear, her cheeks squish and her nose scrunches up, and surprisingly he finds his anger abating.

There’s no doubt that she’s properly shamed. The little bird might be tripping over her words but she's not lying and though he can't trust her, not yet, he knows there’s a small part of him that wants to.

"You look a real treat yourself, little bird," Sandor says, and he's trying not to be angry, for once he's really trying.

Sansa is still looking at him nervously, tugging at the dampened end of her long copper braid.

"I'm sorry," she says, "I didn't mean-"

Sandor cuts her off here - he doesn't need her sputtered apologies and he’d rather see her smile again than spend the rest of this ridiculous date spouting courtesies, worried she’s offended him.

A silence hangs heavy between them, broken only by the soft slosh of the waves against the dock. He's not a big talker, and any other time it would suit him just fine but he can't let it be - he can't let this turn into the slow awkward torture that Cersei had intended.

Sandor won't let the fucking Lannisters shake him, and what's more, something deep inside is calling to him to do his best for Sansa. After Joffrey, after Harry, the least he can do is behave like a decent human being and see them through this safely. He may not be the pretty boy she had dreamt of, Sandor knows, but at least, for her, he'll make an effort.

"Guy I knew in the army," he begins roughly. "He was set to dive off the coast of Salt Shore, now he was no craven but he was terrified of sharks."

Now that catches her attention, and Sansa looks at him hopefully, and perhaps a thankful that he's doing what he can to draw them away from the uncomfortable tension.

Sandor clears his throat and continues, "He’d trained in a tank, never been out in open water so when the time came he was pissing himself, sure he’d be eaten alive. And all was well, until the end of the mission - just before they were ready to surface.”

Sansa casts her eye out toward the open water, and he follows her gaze back to the beach, wondering if she's thinking of the night they met. Maybe he had been trying to spook her then, but now, no - now he's trying to give them something else to think of and if he can make her smile, well...

Even though Sandor is a quiet man, stories have always come easily to him. As a boy he had listened raptly to his grandfather's tales of knights and princes, bone chilling horror and great love lost. Even long after his grandfather had passed, when it was just his father and Gregor and a house built on fear and pain and loneliness, he would tell them to himself, relying on the words to take him far away.

“What happened to him?” Sansa says softly, encouraging him to go on.

Sandor gives a short, bark of a laugh, “he was the last one to reach the boat and before he could haul himself out of the water he felt a bite at his foot - and the tug of something big and angry.”

Her eyes widen behind the mask and his mouth twitches, almost smiling, before continuing.

“He thought he was done for - turned around and there it was, two metres long, shining silver, black eyes staring at him and a hundred sharp little teeth set to bite again."

“Oh no,” she says. ”the poor man, but it can’t have been a shark.”

“Can’t it?”

Sansa smiles at him, biting her lip in a way that makes it very hard to keep his mind from slipping back to the image of her walking toward him on the dock, wondering what she would taste like if he pressed his mouth to her sun warmed skin - honey sweet he thinks with a hint of salt from the sea.

“Nope,” she says, shaking her head. “I asked Pod on the way down and he told me, while there are actually sharks out here, what you didn't say was that most of them aren't much longer than my arm and none of them are interested in eating up little girls - or army divers.”

"Mmm, I see,” he grumbles, feigning annoyance but she’s looking up at him grinning - looking all the more silly for it and he feels an odd sort of tightening in his chest. Before Sandor can think about what that means, Sansa reaches for his hand.

“Will you tell me what it was?”

“Tuna.”

Her laugh is like music to him and he feels that jolt again as her fingers slide over his.

“You’re kidding!”

“That’s the truth,” he says solemnly.

"And I suppose he never heard the end of it?"

"Never," Sandor laughs and what was strained and uncertain is now almost light and friendly. In no uncertain terms, he knows he wants her - and here she is, beautiful as anything he’s ever seen, laughing with him, touching his hand seemingly without a care for the fact that they’re both naked or that a small camera crew is a few metres away documenting what, until now, he had been sure to be insufferable embarrassment.

“Shall we, uh... get to it then?” Sansa asks and where he was right - she no longer seems preoccupied with worry that she has offended him, there's something about her that still seems nervous.

He hates the little voice in his head that gives him hope - he thought it had died long ago along with everything else good and whole in his life, he hates it for suggesting that maybe, maybe the tension lingering between them is born of anticipation and excitement rather than discomfort and disgust.

“Now that we’re both agreed there’s nothing lurking in the water out to get us," Sansa adds - like she genuinely wants his company.

"No, little bird, I'd say I'm about the most dangerous thing out here," he says and his voice comes out low and deep. Sandor wants to cringe at himself. What the fuck did he say that for - what is he doing? This isn’t flirting, is it?

"Then I haven't got a thing to worry about," Sansa says, smiling at him and then she tugs on his hand. "Come on, Pod says there are pink starfish all over the bottom of the dock."

They had spent almost an hour in the water, splashing and diving and they had taken surprisingly little notice of the camera. Sandor didn't give a flying fuck about the starfish they found, the shells or the coral, but Sansa's excitement was almost infectious. He found himself content to follow her, to watch her - enjoying the experience simply because she was.

Sansa was joy, sweetness, beauty - she was everything he wasn't, the only bright spot that had shone in his buggering miserable life and he knew it. He wanted her, and what was more, he wanted to be with her - not just through the clear warm water as she chased the glittering little fishes that darted around their feet, but everywhere - anywhere she would let him.

It was a far fetched thought, and the shame of it twisted his gut. This hadn’t been a real date - he didn't go on dates, and if he did, he’d certainly never had the good fucking fortune to be with someone as beautiful as her. It was a sham, a sleazy tv date, a further instrument of humiliation and torment devised by that old Lannister bitch because he had crossed her precious son.

So the date hadn't failed miserably quite yet, so Sansa hadn't run screaming at the sight of him as Joffrey and his mother had predicted - so what, there was still time for everything to come crashing and burning to the ground.

It always did.

-

Sandor hadn’t noticed straight away but the camera crew that had initially consisted of Pod and only a few others has now doubled in size. He had been too caught up in everything that was Sansa - her bright smile, her captivating joy, the slip of her skin against his as they brushed against each other in the water.

As they make their way back to the dock, he eyes the crew discreetly. While Pod is still following their date, a bossy little man is directing a small group to set up lights and cameras as well as a couple canvas beach chairs on the sand. A flicker of recognition passes through his mind as Sandor watches the man give orders.

His attention is pulled back to the forefront as he realises that Sansa is speaking, girlish excitement in her bright blue eyes.

"What did you think? Did you like it?"

He keeps the man in the corner of his eye as Sansa pulls herself up to the edge, tossing her flippers, snorkel and mask up next to their swimsuits and towels. While they had been swimming, one of the crew had brought their things down to the end of the dock. Sandor follows her motions, happy to be rid of the gear, rubbing at the bridge of his nose and passing a wet hand over his face. He can feel her watching him, and self-consciously, he draws his fingers through his hair, pulling it to one side to conceal the worst of his scarring.

“Yeah,” Sandor says, leaning his forearm up onto the dock but when she cocks her head at him, he goes on, teasing her a little. “I did - it was, uh - what was that word you used last night?”

“Happy?” She raises her eyebrows at him, but he feels himself smiling at her.

“Yeah, it was fun,” Sandor nods - what else could he say? It had been a good time, and he always liked the water, but nothing much could compare to the way she was looking at him now, eyes sparkling with a soft little smile on her parted lips.

There’s hardly a breath between them now and he can feel the slide of her skin - the softness of her hand, her feet, the bump of her hip at his side and Gods be fucking damned, the hardened peaks of her breasts against his arm - as she rocks against him in the gentle waves. What fucking bliss it would be to touch her - really touch her...

He realises it's the look of a girl who wants to be kissed the same time a shadow falls on the water between them.

\- - -

Jaime doesn’t know much about the gods of the summer isles.

If there is a god - or goddess perhaps, for rain, he thinks, staring up at the dark canvas roof of his tent, then sign him up, he’ll worship until the end of his days.

A surprised smile lights his handsome features - the opportunity of it is astounding. Here he had been, dead to the world enjoying some well earned rest after a long day of honest work - the like of which he had hardly ever known, when the heavens had opened and brought Brienne tumbling into his tent. How long had he been waiting for a moment like this? 

As he had booked the flight from Kings Landing, a nervous excitement had bubbled in his chest - he had thought perhaps it would be during this visit, he would finally be able to make his true feelings known. Brienne was his friend, but the closer they became, the more she teased him and put him in his place, and the more she listened to him open his heart and spill his darkest secrets, the more Jaime wanted. He was done with being just friends.

They had talked until long after dark, side by side near the fire, just as they usually did at the end of a long day, but this time, there was only a breath of space between them rather than a thousand kilometres. Jaime had reveled in the feel of her laughter, and the look of her beautiful blue eyes, grateful to finally see the face he had begun to think of more than any other.

He knew he could never tell Brienne that, she was self conscious enough about her looks - she would never believe him that he had come to appreciate her in a way that went beyond appearances. Jaime loved the sound of her voice, the clever glitter in her beautiful blue eyes, the way he could make her blush head to toe and her wide crooked smile when she was unabashedly happy. More than that, it was her gentleness, the effort she put into her work, the care she showed everyone around her, the way she could stand up to his bullshit and accept him just as he was - disaster as he may be. 

For months now, Jaime had flirted with her, becoming more and more desperately blatant in the face of Brienne’s stubbornness. The more he had pushed, it seemed, the more she had tried to act as though she was oblivious. She had brushed off his compliments as though he were joking, all the while blushing from her neck to the roots of her hair. She had rolled her eyes and sighed heavily, every time he had made a bawdy suggestion, but he had caught the way the blue of her eyes would become dark and glossy as though she were thinking it over in interest.

Sometimes he had thought it would just be easier if she told him to shut his mouth and bugger off, and sometimes, when the pains of his past stung fresh and smarting, he had wondered if Brienne had not responded in kind because she was smart enough not to get involved with a wreck like him.

But Jaime had caught the way she had looked at him when she thought he hadn’t noticed, remembered in vivid detail the sweet low quality her voice took on as they talked into the night during their many post-work phone calls, the way she had pressed herself against him so openly when she had greeted him off the plane. There’s something holding her back, and it isn’t lack of desire.

Jaime had never been stranger to the desire of others, women and men too, had vied for his attention. He had never had to try, he had never wanted to try - he had never wanted anyone else when Cersei was the blinding golden sun around which his world moved. But that was before Brienne had become everything to him.

No, Jaime thinks, as he lays still, listening to the rain beat down on the canvas roof overhead. If she had wanted him to stop pushing, she would have told him and meant it. He just needs to convince her this hasn't been some kind of joke - what they have is real, and it could be so much more.

He loves her, he absolutely fucking loves her, and it’s now or never.

He can feel Brienne rigid beside him, wide awake and taking the most shallow breaths imaginable to avoid bringing their bodies too close in the confined space.

Jaime starts simply, just a touch of his fingertips to her shoulder and he feels her shiver. Whether it's out of lingering chill or surprise he doesn’t know. He trails his fingers down her arm and Brienne takes a long shuddering breath.

“Jaime,” she says, cutting him off before he can speak. Brienne is holding herself so tensely to keep the last breath of space between them, but he lays his hand on her arm, gripping gently.

Her skin is cool and goose bumped but so soft - just as he imagined it would be. He starts to speak again, to say something light, to draw her out of her self-imposed shell but he can’t think of the right words. What could he say that he hasn’t already?

“You’ve already been so kind to me tonight - can't we just go to sleep and forget about all of this mess?”

“If you want to stop, tell me to stop.” Jaime says firmly, letting go of the last vestiges of pretense.

“Stop? Stop what, Jaime, please, just -“

He smiles to himself - even now, as he pulls her close, breath ghosting over her skin, how can she not see it? He does the only thing he can think of and sets his lips to her neck, just as softly as the touch of his hand had been on her arm a second before.

"Oh," she says softly and his smile widens.

How often had he thought of this, of them together - he had imagined her, dreamed of her, wanted her for so long, the only thing he hadn't thought of was how difficult it would be to take the final step.

"Tell me, Brienne, do you want to stop?"

"Oh," she says again, "yes, I mean no, no - but you can't possibly -"

"Want you? Gods, Brienne," he sighs pressing against her. “That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you.”

\---


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brienne moves things along, we meet the date-crasher, and everything goes to absolute shite.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a warning - Sansa receives some unwanted attention in this chapter, for those of you who might find that uncomfortable.

Brienne can't seem to make herself move.

If it weren't for the fact that she can feel the heat of him against her back, the drift of his lips down her neck and the grip of his hand on her arm, she just might think it was all another dream. And it's not as if she hasn't had dreams just like this before.

Well, to be fair, not quite like this. In her dreams, Brienne is sure of herself and confident as she matches Jaime's desire with her own. She has most certainly never, ever dreamt of being cold and soggy, down to her smallclothes and a borrowed tshirt, and lying stock still, completely unable to bring herself to move.

It's not as if she doesn't want this - she does, by the Gods she does, but it's as though the revelation has stunned her into a momentary stupor. Jaime was a flirt - he had teased her and pushed her, but to find out he had been serious, after all this time... The idea of it all was almost too big to wrap her head around.

"You want me," she says, still stunned and gasps sharply as she feels his mouth move hot and wet to her ear. The short whiskers on his jaw tickle at her skin and his breath makes her shiver.

"I do," Jaime says, nipping at her ear. "Perhaps you didn't hear me."

Brienne isn't going to fight him on this one. Afterall, she thinks, feeling suddenly much warmer, it's a win for both of them isn't it.

"Gods Jaime, I'm sorry - I just thought -"

"I know what you thought, and you were wrong. I've told you, and I'll tell you as often as you like so you can get it through that stubborn thick head of yours."

Brienne laughs, arching back against him and oh but he does feel incredible pressed firm and muscular into her long frame.

"If that's your idea of seduction, it's no wonder I stayed clueless for so long."

Jaime pushes himself up onto his elbow and he tugs on her shoulder until Brienne is flat on the thin foam bedroll. She can feel the hard uneven ground under her back, a few sharp stones digging in, but it doesn't matter, not with his face hovering over hers just so. Jaime gives her a half smile, somewhere between a 'hello there you are' and a 'see I told you so'.

"Shut it, wench, and let me bloody kiss you properly."

He's beautiful, unbelievably so, and now that her eyes have grown accustomed to the dark, she drinks in the sight of him. He dips his head, resting his forehead against hers and she knows Jaime is savouring the feeling of finally having her close. Finding her courage, she tips her face and kisses him.

Bugger the dreams, she thinks, as his mouth settles sweetly on hers, this is better, so much better.

Brienne threads her fingers through his hair to pull him closer and he tastes her deeply. She groans at this, the feel of his open, wet mouth, soft lips, the slip of his tongue against hers, the nuzzle of his bearded jaw. After a minute or two of excruciating bliss, Jaime pulls back, searching her eyes in the darkness.

"Gods, you are sublime, I want to taste you all over," he says, breathless before he laughs, "you know I can actually feel you blushing, wench. I thought perhaps I'd have to suggest sharing body heat as a means of warming you up," at this, Jaime rolls his hips against hers and Brienne suddenly feels him, hot and hard at her side. "But apparently all I have to do is whisper filthy nothings into your ear and that flush will keep us warm for hours."

"You are insufferable, you do know that," Brienne says, laughing with him. "Lucky for me I've recently been let in on a an excellent way of keeping you quiet."

She can feel him grinning smugly, as Jaime brushes a few damp locks of hair from her face and runs the pad of his thumb from her brow, over her warm cheek to rest on her parted lips.

"Care to demonstrate? Because you know, wench, I've been thinking about this for a long time, and I've got quite a lot of ideas."

It's impossible not to take his bait, and Brienne silences him with another deep, pulling kiss. It's Jaime's turn to groan and the sound of it rumbles through his chest making her shiver. He presses into her again and she arches up this time, running her hands over the smooth warm skin of his back.

When they part, they're both breathing heavily - the feel of all is almost overwhelming. The smart thing to do would be to take this slow and Brienne knows that rushing into things could be the mistake that damages their hardwon friendship. When Jaime’s hand slides up under her shirt, gripping at her side, smoothing over her breasts and down her belly, his laboured breath in her ear, she finds she doesn’t care.

They've weathered tougher stuff than this - and gods, it has been a long time coming.

-

Sansa had thought that by the end of her third date, she would be ready to put on her clothes as soon as the camera stopped rolling.

She had thought, after her first two dates and the chaos that had followed, that she would be immediately ready to get dressed and go home. Now though, as she clutches onto the smooth sun warmed wood of the dock, bobbing a little in the gentle waves, Sansa is surprised to find herself in no rush.

This date had by far been the best and not just because he hadn't gaped at her like a bloodthirsty creep or marooned her on some stupid island.

Sandor isn't pretty - not like the other boys Sansa has dated, here or at home, but he's not boring or self obsessed or a total jerk either and there's something about him that's so exciting... And something else too, hidden away that seems almost fragile. Sansa had almost thought she had ruined everything - how stupid, stupid could she be to let him think even for a second that she would laugh at him.

She had known that he was far more interested in watching her than what they had found on their dive, and yet he had not been degrading or disrespectful - in fact, there was a part of Sansa that had wished he had looked a little more than his obvious restraint allowed.

As he had watched her walking towards him down the dock, she hardly had the time to appreciate the way his stormy grey eyes had swept over her before she had become thoroughly distracted by his remarkable body.

Sansa had found herself wishing he had looked a little longer, and hoping that he had liked what he had seen. She had even begun to wonder what it would feel like to touch him - and more than just his hands, to press her palm flat to his chest and feel his heart beat under firm muscle, to feel the taut ridges of his scarred cheek as his mouth pressed hard onto hers.

Sandor looks like he wants to kiss her - she's seen that look before, and the intensity of it is enough to make her shiver, even there in the warm water. Sansa can’t say how or why, but she wants it - she wants him to. His eyes settle on her mouth, his own parting a little, and though his lips are tight and twisted, burnt away on one side, it doesn’t turn her away. It doesn’t matter, she thinks tipping up her chin, wanting, waiting.

But the kiss doesn’t come.

“My, my, look at what we have here.”

She pulls away, throwing her arm across her chest out of modesty and stares up at the intruder. She squints her eyes - the man is backlit by the bright afternoon sun but with an uncomfortable realisation that makes her wish she had gotten dressed straight away, Sansa recognises that voice.

“Uncle Petyr?”

-

Sandor wants to hit something.

Petyr fucking Baelish - what spectacular timing that little fucker has.

He had only known the man a few weeks, but from the moment they had met in Tyrion's office, Sandor had despised him thoroughly. Baelish had simpered at each one of Joffrey's revolting jokes and fawned over Cersei's ever word with a smile that had never reached his sharp eyes.

Whatever the Lannisters thought of the man, Sandor knew better - he could always smell a rat, and Baelish stunk to the high heavens.

And why - why had Baelish chosen now of all moments to drop in, just when Sandor was beginning to think that Cersei wasn't going to get what she wanted. The stupid farce was just starting to look more like one of his wildest dreams rather than a certain nightmare. Despite the old bitch's intentions, somehow it had truly become a date with a beautiful smiling girl, who had been looking for all the world as though she'd like nothing more than his hands in her hair and his ruined mouth pressed against hers.

Had Baelish been watching on the sidelines, instructed to swoop in and shite all over everything if by some miracle things didn't immediately go to hell on their own? Trust the Lannisters to have a fail safe.

Curse Petyr Baelish - curse him and those fucking Lannisters to each of the seven hells and back.

Seemingly on instinct, he moves closer to Sansa, throwing back his shoulders and becoming bigger, broader even as Baelish looks down on them. The shock of pink spreading from her cheeks to the tips of her ears tells Sandor she's embarrassed to be caught in such a compromising position - by her uncle no less, but he knows there's more to it than that.

"Sansa, my darling - you do seem to be enjoying yourself," Baelish says with a tightly curled smile, clapping his hands together. "And despite the circumstances too," he adds, eyeing Sandor as though he's a bucket of stinking fish heads.

Oh yes, Sandor definitely wants to hit something - preferably Baelish's stupid smirking face.

He glares right back up at him with considerable malice and Sandor is pleased to note that the little fucker at least has the sense to take a step back from the edge of the dock even if his smug smile remains.

It isn't even because Baelish is clearly trying to provoke him, or because he's wearing that look of poorly disguised disgust that Sandor knows all too well. It isn't even because the bastard had interrupted what could have been one of the sweetest moments in Sandor's miserable fucking life.

No - this is about Sansa.

Only a moment ago, she had been confident, beautiful in her joy and the moment Baelish had arrived, her comfort, her happiness, had vanished.

Where she had been relaxed and open - and dare he think it, excited at the idea of a kiss from an ugly old dog, now she is smaller somehow. The lightness that had radiated from within her - that has been drawing him closer and closer with each meeting, has diminished, wrapped up tight and hidden away behind a smooth ivory shell.

The little fucker makes her uncomfortable and Sandor would happily crush him to dust with his bare hands just for that.

He doesn’t give two fucks about most people, not unless he’s paid to but it has only taken a few days in Sansa’s company to bring out his fiercest instincts. She seems to have folded in on herself, hiding as best she can behind the solid wood of the dock. He tries to catch her eye, to give her some sign that at the mere hint of a suggestion he would gladly toss Baelish on his sorry ass but Sansa seems frozen in her embarrassment like a frightened doe.

Sandor hates Baelish - hates him with everything he has for taking her smile away.

\--

Sansa comes to life at the sound of her Uncle’s expectant little cough.

“Oh,” she says, pausing to glance at Sandor without meeting his eye. “No, it was nothing. We were just, it was just… a date.”

Baelish widens his eyes and his brows raise further towards his silvered hair.

“For the show,” she clarifies hurriedly. Whatever is happening between them is no business of her uncle’s and Sansa can’t think of anything she’d want more than to get this conversation over with as soon as possible and get out from Uncle Petyr’s prying gaze.

She feels Sandor shift in the water beside her as though he can sense her discomfort and means to act as her shield. Sansa thinks back to the stables that morning and her heart swells - no matter what he would say to the contrary, Sandor had been unbelievably thoughtful, honourable even. He had already defended her once today, and here he was looking out for her again.

Between the protection of the dock and Sandor’s solid bulk, Sansa feels about as safe as she ever has confronted with Uncle Petyr.

She swallows her nerves - perhaps, if she can remember her manners, grin and bear a few minutes of conversation, her uncle will go back to whichever rock he crawled out from under. And maybe, there'll be time to remind Sandor that just because they were interrupted, not all is lost.

During their date, Sandor had appeared almost relaxed, as though he had been able to let go of the weight of his demons while in her company and Sansa likes the idea of that. He seems like someone who could do with a little more happiness in his life, and she's happy to help him find it.

“So what are you doing here?” Sansa says brightly, her voice quite at odds with the churning in her stomach. She smiles at Uncle Petyr as politely as she can - just get this over with, she reminds herself, maybe he’ll go away.

“I’m doing a little filming on the island and with Ms Tarth away, I thought to come lend a hand to young Podrick. Surely your mother told you I would be here - Catelyn did tell me that you were taking a few days holiday, though I dare say she didn’t mention how you’d be spending your time.”

Sansa had given thought to what she might tell her parents if ever they happened across the episode of CRTV’s most risqué dating program featuring their straight laced eldest daughter. She isn’t ashamed of her need for a little adventure, but she knows her father will lose his head over the words ‘naked’ and ‘dating’ no matter what she tells them.

So far, Sansa hasn’t thought of anything but whatever she comes up with will be better than if they have to hear about it from Uncle Petyr.

“You’re not going to tell her, are you?"

“It’s quite alright, sweetling,” Petyr says in a most understanding tone, that makes Sansa feel as though whatever he’s about to say will be a bald faced lie. “Now why would I do that? I was young once, I too had my fun - you needn’t explain. I know very well what goes on around here.”

Sandor gives a disgusted sort of grunt under his breath that sounds and awful lot like ‘no shit’ and Uncle Petyr turns to him, acknowledging the other man for the first time.

Oh, no, Sansa thinks, if this is about to go the way she thinks it is - and it probably is, judging by the way her uncle’s eyes have grown cold and steely, then she’s just lost all hope of getting away easy.

“Sansa - you haven’t introduced me to your… friend?”

“Save the bullshit, Baelish, you know who I am,” Sandor says sharply tipping his head back and glaring up at the other man. "I had to stand through three hours of you and Cersei picking through potential dates for Joffrey like you were at a cattle auction."

Sansa is shocked - did she really hear what she thought she heard? She had always known Uncle Petyr was a creep, no matter how he tried to impress her mother and aunt Lysa with stories from his work as an 'independent filmmaker', but knowing he had read her application, that he'd chosen her for handsy Harry and KJ the sleazebag - and that his meeting her here wasn't a coincidence at all...

Sansa feels sick to her stomach, the embarrassment she had felt giving way to disgust and she can't help but be thankful that Sandor is there with her.

“Ah, I suppose we do, don't we - yours is hardly a face one forgets," Uncle Petyr says flatly, making no acknowledgement of his hand in the selection process.

Sansa gasps "Uncle Petyr!"

“Clever,” Sandor snarls. “Never heard that one before. Get on with whatever you came down here for, Baelish, or fuck off."

Instead of appearing affronted, Petyr’s smile curls slow and gloating and he returns his attention to Sansa.

"It is true I lent my talents to the casting staff at Casterly Rock," Petyr sighs, crouching at the edge of the dock, plucking a towel from the basket and making a show of unfolding it as he speaks and fixing Sansa with that practiced hot and cold smile. "but I only meant to ensure they presented you with the highest quality of suitors. Needless to say this ill mannered beast was not of my choosing.”

"Fuck you!"

"He's not a -" she starts.

"Clearly he is, sweetling, that is no way to speak in front of a lady. Now why don’t you hop out of the water so we can get you up to the beach for your interview - let’s not keep Ms Sand waiting.”

Sure enough, Sansa sees the little cluster of people and equipment on the beach not far from the dock. In one of the two canvas chairs sits and elegant woman with shining dark hair. She's watching them intently, obviously curious as to the hold up as a crewmember applies powder to her nose. As she catches Sansa's eye, the woman smiles and waves her over.

Sansa had forgotten about the post date interview. Now that her three dates were over, the host of the show - none other than the ever glamorous Ellaria Sand, would talk her through the experience, and ask her questions leading up to her final selection the day after tomorrow. Ms Sand was one of the hottest names in Westeros television, she hosted a popular celebrity gossip program, and she was even one of this season's judges on Hear Me Roar.

Sansa looks away from the beach and back at the towel in Uncle Petyr’s arms. She doesn't like to keep anyone waiting, as a rule she's punctual and organised but Ellaria Sand will just have to hold on. Baelor the bloody blessed could be waiting on the beach with a fresh plate of lemon cakes and Sansa still wouldn’t get out of the water right now, and if Uncle Petyr really thinks he can cop a feel under the guise of being helpful… Well he was more of a creep than any of them had ever imagined.

“Come along,” he says in a such a falsely sweet tone it makes her stomach churn.

“Fine, if you insist,” Sandor says suddenly. There is a great rush of water as he pushes himself up and onto the dock, snatching the towel away from Uncle Petyr. With the briefest of glances over his shoulder at Sansa - a gesture she knows to mean that she’s safe to get out - Sandor slings the towel around his waist and takes a step towards the smaller man. Uncle Petyr nearly trips over his own feet as he backs away.

Sansa gets herself out the water and into her swimsuit in mere seconds, wrapping herself snugly in one of the remaining towels and coming to stand at Sandor's side. She's not sure what makes her do it - perhaps to say thank you for looking out for her, or perhaps because just being near him makes her feel somehow more at ease, but Sansa slips her hand into Sandor's free one and squeezes gently. Maybe she's trying to reassure him too, because the way he's looking at Uncle Petyr makes her think he's not about to forgive and forget any time soon.

There's something a little bit exciting about him, she thinks as she glances up at Sandor, taking in the sheer ferocity of his tense body. That was now twice today that he had put himself between Sansa and someone who had spoken ill of her, or in Uncle Petyr's case, thoroughly creeped her out.

Though she curses her foolish mind for thinking it - now's not the time, Sansa - she can't help herself but admire him, his willingness to stand up for her, how respectful he had been during their date, how thoughtful.

Sandor tips his head and a few strands of long dark hair fall into his eyes. He looks down at their hands, her small fingers laced through his own and back up into her eyes and there's almost something disbelieving about his expression, as though he can't quite believe she's really there, standing so close, touching him.

"You okay?" Sandor asks quietly.

Sansa nods and squeezes his hand once again, giving him a soft reassuring smile. He doesn't smile back, but his long, thick fingers tighten around hers and, oh - there's something about it that feels just right.

"Let's go," she says before turning back to her uncle. "See you soon, Uncle Petyr."

Sansa fervently hopes that isn't the case, but it seems to placate her uncle.

"I do hope so, Sansa, sweetling," he says, sounding once again poised and falsely pleasant. "Now off to your interview - I'm sure your friend will have no trouble waiting until you’re finished. There will be plenty of time to get to know each other afterward."

"Thanks, Uncle Petyr, I will," Sansa says as she begins to walk away, but he goes on.

"You know, if memory serves me well, I believe the two of you also have a mutual acquaintance." His arms cross in front of his chest as he gives them an appraising look and Sansa can see his eyes linger where her hand is joined with Sandor's.

Uncle Petyr smiles. Anyone else might think he's back to being friendly but Sansa has the horrible feeling he's wearing the self-assured face of a man about to deliver the final blow. "Why don't you ask Mr Clegane how he knows that old friend of Arya's - Mycah Butcher, was it? I'm sure that will give the two of you plenty to talk about."

Mycah...

Sansa knows that name, but it takes a second before she can place it and then suddenly, the memory of a summer evening, not long after Arya had come to King's Landing, forms in her head.

Sansa had been out with a group of girlfriends from school for a little dancing at the Guildhall, and she had invited Arya along in the interests of fostering a sisterly relationship now that they would be living together. Sansa had never actually expected Arya to show up, but her little sister had - an hour late, and with a scrubby ginger boy who she had introduced to Sansa's friends as Mycah Butcher.

Sansa remembered feeling distinctly annoyed at the presence of her sister's tag along - not to mention Arya's ripped jeans, hadn't Sansa told her it was a classy place? - but when she and the girls had gone back to dancing, losing Arya and her friend in the crowd, it hadn't mattered.

A few hours later, Sansa had held tight to Arya's hand as they had ridden home in the back of a police car. There had been a scuffle by the bar, Arya had told her - some arrogant pretty boys had cut in line and she had stood up to them, with Mycah right beside her. It had nearly come to fisticuffs when the bartender had threatened to call security but they had all backed off.

Mycah had just gone out back for a cigarette, to calm his nerves after the almost-fight, Arya had told first the policemen and then her sister, but he had never come back. A short while later, in the alley behind the club, someone had found Mycah in a pool of his own blood, beaten to a pulp.

Sansa remembered the clear look of horror, anger, shock, written all over Arya's face when her friend was taken to hospital. After a long hard month, when Mycah was finally fit to leave, he and his father had left the city too, and Arya had never heard from him again.

"No," Sansa breathes, despite herself - looking up at Sandor. Her stomach drops and she feels sick all over again, and as he looks back at her, resignation and regret settling on the hard lines of his face, rage and sadness in the dark grey storm of his eyes, she knows.

Sansa hadn't seen the flashy group of boys who had picked a fight with her sister but she's willing to bet that Joffrey must've been in the lead and she knows, as much as it appalls her to think of it, that Sandor must have been the giant, faceless thug that had followed Mycah outside.

Sansa pulls her hand away and steps back, and quite without meaning to her feet start to move, carrying her away from the dock and out onto the beach.

"Fuck you Baelish," she hears Sandor growl but she doesn't turn around to see him place a hand squarely in the centre of her uncle’s chest and push him backward off his feet.

Uncle Petyr yells as he falls off the dock and hits the water with a mighty splash.

-


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa gives a post date interview, Sandor takes a phone call and the girls have a chat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All my love to swiftsnowmane for getting me through this one - it was seriously rough going. If you're here for the JB, they'll return next chapter :)

Sansa’s post date interview had thankfully gone quite quickly.

Ellaria Sand had introduced herself, shaken hands, and smiled warmly at Sansa as they had settled in the canvas chairs across from each other. Before Pod gave the go ahead to begin with the questions, a few of the crew had circled around her, applying a little makeup and preparing her for the camera so that Sansa looked fresh and beachy rather than wet and bedraggled.

As they had powdered her face and arranged her hair about her shoulders in what she hoped was at least slightly more attractive than the heavy damp plait she had worn throughout the date, Sansa had cast a glance over her shoulder to where she had left Sandor standing on the dock. He was gone - but she could see a long trail of heavy footprints leading from the dock through the sand towards the trailhead.

Sansa hadn’t stopped to help Uncle Petyr out of the water, and as she had looked back, she saw him drag himself, soaked and cursing back up to the beach and straight through the trees in the direction of the main hall.

She hadn’t really been in the mood to answer Ellaria’s questions. Sansa felt distracted and unhelpful as the host had asked her to compare her dates, rate them on looks, first impressions, manners and conversation, and asked whether Sansa had felt she had made a connection with any one of her three suitors.

It had been easy to give her honest opinion of Joffrey, and of Harry too, and Ellaria had seemed quite surprised - not that either of the boys had behaved badly, but that Sansa hadn't been so starstruck by I Am the King KJ that she was willing to overlook his less than admirable qualities in favour of a chance to get closer to a famous pop star. When the host had pressed Sansa to talk about her third date, she had been reluctant to give any details.

Sansa hadn’t known what to say. Whatever she knew, or thought she knew, about Sandor’s involvement with Mycah Butcher had weighed heavily on her mind, warring with the side of her that had witnessed him defend her, not once, but twice that day. It shook her to think that he had beaten that boy senseless but she couldn’t let go of the part of her that felt safe with him, the part that had genuinely enjoyed spending time with him or the part of her that shivered with excitement at the thought of him touching her, kissing her…

When Pod had called an end to the interview, saying that he was needed at the stables for Joffrey's final date, Ellaria had slipped gracefully from her chair and smoothed the front of her long flowing dress. She had relaxed a little of the glamour she had worn in front of the camera and she had leaned in, dropping her voice so that only Sansa could hear her.

To Sansa's dismay, Ellaria Sand had asked about the altercation on the dock, though when Sansa had again seemed reluctant to spill the details, the host had laughed warmly.

"You're not in any trouble, my dear, and I hardly think your date was the first person who's wanted give Petyr Baelish his dues. That bit of gossip is going to make quite the story, I'm only disappointed the cameras weren’t rolling by the time he hit the water. Thank your date for me - I'm going to remind Petyr of his little swim the next time he tries to recruit my daughters for one of his films.”

-

When Sansa arrives back at her cabin, it is blissfully silent. Her body is exhausted from the long swim and her head feels heavy with the weight of her thoughts. She’s happy to be alone right now - grateful that Margaery and Dany aren’t around to ask her about her date.

Sansa needs food, a shower and clean dry clothes, but instead of doing the sensible thing and getting herself cleaned up and heading down to the main hall, she kicks off her sandals at the front door and heads straight to her room, tumbling onto the neatly made bed. She lets out a long deep sigh, the covers are clean and comfortably cool - sometime during the afternoon, housekeeping had come to tidy the room and she’s grateful for that too, for a safe quiet space to think.

This was supposed to be a vacation. Sansa had come to the summer isles to let loose and let go of her inhibitions, to prove to herself that she was more than just the good little girl that everyone thought she was. She had wanted to have fun, enjoy the beach and the sunshine and she had hoped - if she was lucky, that just maybe she could make a connection on one of her dates, and feel a spark that could grow into something more.

Her eyes flutter closed and she takes another deep breath, she can smell the sea on the air, and the heavy, humid scent of impending showers. As she had walked back to her cabin, large grey clouds had begun to creep across the sky from the west, and now, she can hear the first fat drops of a summer storm hit the roof overhead.

Sansa tries to focus on the sound, but the pitter pat of raindrops isn’t enough to keep her thoughts from drifting back to Sandor. She rolls onto her side and pulls a pillow from the head of the bed, hugging it against her chest.

It had been a shock to learn that Sandor was involved that night at the Guildhall - not because she hadn’t known what he was capable of, but because it had brought the harsh realities of his life too close to home. When Sansa had thought of that night, it was the memory of Arya’s face, her sister’s pain, her rage at the injustice that had stung like a slap in the face - and just as Uncle Petyr had intended, Sansa had turned her back on Sandor and walked away.

Sandor had been honest with her from the very start - he hadn’t hidden what he was or what he had done and though she had felt shocked and saddened at his admission, she had still found it within herself to accept him. She didn’t like it and she wasn’t going to make excuses for him, Sansa had told him so that very night, but more than anything it had been clear to her that he was a good man, coarse and jaded maybe, someone who had done terrible things and seen the worst of what this life had to offer, but there was something good there.

She had seen his pain, his desperation - the grief he carried for what he had done and for what the weight of his actions had cost him. Sansa had been able to accept him, despite all this and she had only hoped that one day he could see that there was a better way to live.

Sansa wanted to talk to him - she wanted to make him see that he didn't have to be the monster everyone thought he was. There was good in him, he just needed to see it too and he wasn't beyond forgiveness.

Sansa hadn't come to the Summer Isles to find a broken man in need of saving - but she had been looking for that spark, that connection and she had found it with Sandor. She can't save him, but she can forgive him and maybe she can still show him that he can save himself.

As the wind picks up and the rain begins to fall fast and heavy, Sansa shuts her eyes tight, burrowing her face in the soft covers and wills herself to rest. But sleep doesn't come, and fifteen minutes later Sansa is up and on her feet, headed to the shower.

-

Sandor had known it was over the moment she had turned away.

He had grabbed his things from the basket on the dock and dressed quickly before crossing the beach in long purposeful strides. His feet had sunk deep into the sand until he reached the trailhead. It didn't matter that he hadn't known where he was going - he needed to move, to get away, to leave this disaster behind.

Sandor had walked only a few metres before turning directly into the brush, stalking through the jungle like the snarling beast he was. The anger that he carried, always so close to the surface, had been ready to break, his body tense and reeling with unspent energy.

How could he have been so stupid - so embarrassingly fucking stupid to think there was ever a chance for a monster like him and a girl so sweet, so pure, so beautiful as Sansa?

Sandor had thought he'd left that foolish hope behind - there was only one thing men like him were good for and even if he had been honest with her, even if she had accepted him, that night on the beach when he had shown her the darkest parts of himself, it had only been a matter of time before she had done the smart thing and walked away.

Sansa might have shown him kindness, but men like him didn't belong with girls like her. He knew what he was, and he had still dared to try - he knew it and now Sansa did too.

Sandor had crashed through the brush, coming to stand under the boughs of a thick tree just as he had felt the first fat drops of rain had begun to fall through the heavy canopy. The stinging whip of the branches against his arms and legs had been a small, satisfying pain but it hadn’t been enough. He had wanted to hit something - not to cause pain, but to feel it, to let out some of his anger and hit and hit until his knuckles split and he could feel his own blood run down his arms.

He wasn't angry at her - he didn't blame her, not in the slightest. He hated himself for not letting go of that hope while he still had the chance. He hated every last thing the Lannisters had made him do and even more, he hated himself for going along with it, and for not standing up each and every time he knew it was wrong.

The first signal of his mobile feels like salt in an open wound. The phone buzzes and buzzes in the pocket of his shorts and he ignores it.

No doubt it's Joffrey calling to gloat. No one else ever called him - who would? He had obediently carried the buggering thing with him for years now, powered on and fully charged, part of his job to be available any and all hours of the day. It was hardly a phone, more like a leash the boy could tug on whenever he wanted to drag his faithful hound home.

Sandor pulls the phone from his pocket, gripping it tight in his hand and thinks briefly of tossing it into the jungle, or better yet, crushing the thing against a tree. But when it buzzes again, and the again and again, he answers brusquely.

"What?" He snarls, hating himself for playing the good dog.

"You're needed."

At first he doesn't hear the request - someone is yelling in the background, and Tyrion's calm, almost amused voice is lost in the sound of chaos.

"What?" Sandor says again, but Joffrey, he realises, is in the throws of fit and there's the a few seconds before the damned imp lawyer speaks again.

"You're needed. Joffrey has a task for you."

So something else shitty and miserable happened, that was just the way of things wasn't it? It wasn't unusual for the boy to throw tantrums when he didn't get his way but spoiled as Joffrey was, this kind of yelling, Sandor knows, can only mean one thing - the boy is out for blood.

"The fuck does he want?" Sandor asks, dreading whatever miserable buggering demand Joffrey has for him.

"Let's just say my dear nephew has not been having a good day," Tyrion laughs.

There's a loud yowling of pain from somewhere down the line and then Joffrey is yelling again.

"Don’t touch it, mother - fuck, ah! No I said don’t touch it, just - fuck!”

“Joffrey, hold still and let me - “

“Just give me the fucking ice would you!"

 

"Fine, do it yourself - I'm going to call Jaime," Sandor hears Cersei say, before there's the sound of a door slamming.

"What the fuck is happening over there?" Sandor doesn't much care what's happened to the boy - he doesn't want any part of it but he asks anyway.

"Well," Tyrion begins in a tone of undisguised amusement. "It seems someone thought to sabotage Joffrey's third date - he's feeling a little sore in the saddle, quite literally."

If he wasn't in such a damned awful mood, Sandor might've laughed. By the sounds of it, the boy has only got some of what he deserves.

"You think this is funny do you? My bollocks are swollen to the size of grapefruits and you think this is fucking funny? Who are you talking to anyway? Is that him?" Joffrey snaps, nearer the phone this time.

"Mr. Clegane was inquiring after the condition of his employer," Tyrion says smoothly, unaffected by the tirade. "Shall I tell him the reason you're howling like a baboon is because someone has given you the backside to match?"

"Fuck off! Just tell him to get his ugly fucking face back here, I've got work for him!"

"Who could refuse such a request?"

"He works for me - he's my dog and he'll come when I call him."

Tyrion sighs, speaking into the phone once more.

"As I'm sure you can hear, Joffrey wishes that you return immediately and - I can only assume he means to have you find the person responsible for his latest misfortune and pay him back in kind."

"Misfortune?" Joffrey yells indignantly. "I want my dog to do the only thing he's good for and find whoever did this and ram the fucker's face so far up his own arse he's choking on his own shit. I want him to go out there and bring me back his head!"

"That's a little unreasonable, don't you think?" Tyrion says, and Sandor can only imagine how much the little man must be enjoying needling his nephew's temper.

"Shut up, no one asked you."

"You don’t even know who’s head you’re after."

"Of course I do - it was that Martell fuck, what’s his name?"

"The boy we pulled out of the episode so that you could send Mr. Clegane instead? You think it was him?" Tyrion asks, but Sandor isn't surprised. It's like Joffrey to jump to conclusions, and even with the supposed motive, the boy operates on a strict policy of guilty until proven beaten and bloody.

Sandor grinds the palm of his hand against his brow, the noise of the argument through the phone is grating at the last of his nerves. It could've been anyone, Sandor knows - it never takes long for people to realise what an arrogant shit the boy is and Joffrey has been on the island long enough to have offended more than a few people.

"Yes him!" Joffrey yells, closer to the phone this time. "Do you hear me, dog? Find that stinking little shit and make him bleed! Make him pay for this and if you don't - don't think I won't put an end to this arrangement and have you hanging from the thickest rope they can find."

Before either Joffrey or his uncle can say anything more, Sandor ends the call, and drops his mobile into his pocket. It buzzes again as he leans heavily against the tree. The rain is harder now, even under the cover of the canopy and it drips from the leaves overhead, wetting his face and soaking through his tshirt.

He doesn't care.

Sandor doesn't care about the rain, he doesn't give a flying fuck about whatever trouble Joffrey has gotten himself into and he sure as buggering hell doesn't want to spend the rest of his life beating up stupid brats who didn't have the sense to know not to get in precious King Joffrey's way.

All the damned yelling has made his head ache, sharp and splitting and Sandor squeezes his eyes tight. Without meaning to, Sansa's faces appears clearly in his mind's eye - radiant and sun warmed, sparkling blue eyes and soft pink lips, the way she had looked just before everything had come to a crashing halt.

He should've kissed her, then he would have one good memory amidst all this shit.

Sandor pushes away from the tree and starts to walk, not towards the cabins or any of the retreat's outbuildings, but back the way he came, through the jungle and down to the beach.

-

Sansa is freshly washed, dressed and feeling a little more like her usual self, when she hears a tap tap on the bathroom door.

"Hey doll, you decent?"

"Mhhm" Sansa hums as she dabs a little bead of coral gloss on her lips. "Come in!"

"Have I got news for you!" Margaery says excitedly, appearing in the mirror behind her and as Sansa tosses the tube of gloss back into her bag, her friend presses a tall martini glass full of something pink and icy into Sansa's free hands.

"What's happened? Is everything alright?" Sansa asks, before raising the glass to her nose and sniffing curiously. She catches the scent of something light and floral, but it's not enough to cover the strong smell of tequila.

"Dany got him good! Utterly brilliant, that girl - you remember those chili peppers? She rubbed them all over Joffrey's saddle before they went riding. He was only up there ten seconds before he started screeching."

"She did what?" Sansa says, setting down the glass on the counter with a heavy clink.

"He had no idea it was her? Oh Margie, he's going to be furious."

It's not like Sansa to take pleasure in someone else's pain but if anyone deserves it she thinks, it's Joffrey. She isn't thinking of Joffrey now, but of Dany and what kind of sick and twisted revenge he'd wish for her if he found out.

"So what, let him rage - Mya and Myranda are here with a couple of girls Dany met by the pool so get that hot little body out of here, tonight we're toasting to Joffrey's scorched arse!"

"I don't know -" Sansa hesitates, although drinks with the girls sounds like fun she had thought of little else but going to find Sandor.

It doesn't matter that she isn't sure what she's going to say - after the mess that Uncle Petyr made, she hopes it will be enough to show him that he isn't beyond forgiveness.

Margaery sets down her glass and leans in, bumping their hips together as she slips her hand around Sansa's waist.

"Oh come on it'll be fun!" Margaery says with her most persuasive smile. "You sound like you could use a girl's night in and you can tell us all about your date. I heard they switched out bachelor number three for that grumpy bodyguard of Joffrey's. Tell me you managed to get a good look at that one at least, man like him, bet he's hung like a horse, shame about the face though."

"Margie!" Sansa says, turning on her friend sharply. "He's been really nice to me, better than any of the others - I don't think he's really what people think he is. And there's absolutely nothing wrong with the way he looks."

"Oh, doll - I didn't mean anything by it," Margaery says, pausing to eyeing Sansa with knowing interest. "But you can't deny he is rather fearsome."

"I know he is - I know he's done some awful things, but there's something kind and almost sweet about him, I know he'd never hurt me." Sansa says, tipping her head shyly and she smiles before adding, "Margie, I think I like him."

"So where's the problem? I can't say I would've marked him for your type, but then most women don't know what they like until they've tried it."

Margaery is right, there's no way Sansa could've guessed that she'd find herself attracted to someone that would make her old septa faint with shock. There's a lot Sansa hasn't tried yet, but as she lets her imagination wander - a strong body, pressing heavily into hers, large rough hands on her hips, breath in her ear and hot kisses on her neck - it's Sandor she thinks of, not the golden pretty boys she had once dreamed of.

"Well there wasn't time to try anything exactly," Sansa says shiftily, tugging at the zipper on her makeup bag.

"Mhhm, sounds like you certainly wanted to," Margaery laughs.

"There was a moment," Sansa admits, "I thought he might kiss me but..."

"So he likes you too - I still don't see the problem. If you want to know what I'd do," Margaery says, nudging her again before picking up her drink. "I'd stay and have one of these famous rose water margaritas, treat my lovely girlfriends to some juicy gossip and take off into the storm in search of mister tall dark and grumpy."

Sansa has to admit, while she's sure she wouldn't make it common practice to do just as Margaery Tyrell, in this case, her friend has got it right. She wants to enjoy a drink with her new friends, let the liquid courage work its magic and find Sandor - before it's too late.

"But everything ended so horribly," Sansa sighs heavily, turning to lean against the countertop. "I found out something about him I really wish I hadn't."

"Of course you did, exactly what did you expect when you started falling for a paid thug?"

"Margie!"

"What? It's true - just talk to him about it. If it's meant to be then you'll work it out."

"You think so?"

"Of course, doll - I believe you. He plays the part of Joffrey's guard dog but I think there's more to it than that. I don't know the man well, we've never met, but some years ago he saved my brother's life and from what my grandmother says, that's why the Lannisters have got him in quite a tight spot."

"He did?" Sansa says, feeling her heart quicken. "What happened?"

"Well," Margaery begins, picking up her drink and taking a sip. "I can't imagine he'd be too pleased if I told you, he seems determined to have everyone think his bite is a bad as his bark, but it's the kind of thing a girl needs to know before she goes falling head over heels."

"I'm not - I didn't say I was - " Sansa denies and Margaery fixes her with one of those knowing smiles. "Please, Margie?"

"Maybe not yet, but I think you'd be lying if you said there wasn't somewhere else you'd rather be tonight," her friend says, slinging her arm around Sansa's shoulder and she feels herself blush.

Margaery takes the second glass from the counter and presses it into Sansa's hands. This time she takes a sip and the strong flavours of lime and tequila and roses bloom on her tongue.

"Stay for a drink, and I'll tell you about Loras and then you can go find your knight in tarnished armour."

-


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaime and Brienne have a little fun, Sansa heads back to the beach and Sandor gets a taste of something good, for a change.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again super thanks to my darling swiftsnowmane <3

Brienne is flushed and sweating, the damp chill she had felt when she had fled her own tent is now long gone.

Jaime lies snugly beside her, the hard plane of his chest rising and falling at nearly the same heavy pace as her own breath, one arm wrapped around her, the other drawing ticklish little circles over the freckles on her shoulders. The rain had stopped but it’s still too dark to see much in the tent and Brienne wonders, as his fingers hop from freckle to freckle, if it’s coincidence, or if after all that time he’d spent watching her today, his memory is guiding his touch.

As it had turned out, a one-man tent had been by far too small for two people over six feet tall to, as Jaime had said, properly enjoy each other, but that hadn’t stopped him from pulling Brienne to lie against him. He had pressed her back to his front, and with his mouth at her neck, he had pushed her smallclothes somewhere down into the depths of the sleeping bag and worked her gently, thoroughly, expertly toward oblivion.

The borrowed t-shirt had come in handy too, when later Brienne had paid him back in kind, bringing Jaime to his own release. He had arched against her, gasping her name, and Brienne had felt sorely disappointed that the tent had been too dark to see what she was sure to be one of the most beautiful sights she would ever lay eyes on. When she had admitted this fact, Jaime had given her a breathless kiss and laughed. There was still next time, he'd said - and gods, had she hoped he was right.

“I knew it wench,” Jaime says, nuzzling into her hair. She can feel the way his lips curve against the nape of her neck and Brienne knows he is smiling. “I knew you’d be absolutely delicious - and I hate to say it -“

“Then don’t,” she teases, “I’m sure your ego can handle it, just this once.”

“Ah, but if you think I’m going to pass up the opportunity to rub it in.”

“I thought you were going to tell me I told you so, not make filthy puns.”

Jaime laughs warm and deep and the vibration of it against her back sends a wonderful new sort of shiver throughout her sated body.

“Oddly enough, that one hadn’t even occurred to me. You know, I like you like this, wench - just think of how much more pleasant the last few months would have been if we’d been having fantastic sex all the time.” He gives a long overly dramatic sigh. “If only you’d just caught on a little sooner.”

Brienne tilts her head back to look at him and she can just make out the glint of his eyes in the dark. Definitely far too smug, she thinks, and elbows him in the ribs.

“Don’t even think of trying to pin this one on me - I know better than anyone you’re absolutely full of shit at least ninety percent of the time, how was I supposed to know you actually meant all that stuff. And,” Brienne says, doing her best imitation of his long suffering sigh. “we’ve only actually seen each other twice in the last eight months, there wouldn’t have been time for all the fantastic sex you’re talking about.”

“Phone sex then, whatever, there’s no need to be picky. You do have a lovely telephone voice, gods the number of times I hung up, half-hard and desperately wanting you. Never mind holding a pen and feeding myself with a spoon, there were better reasons to learn to be left-handed.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“Truth, every word of it.”

A silence falls over them and Brienne wonders if he’s thinking the same thing she is. The day after tomorrow, Jaime will be back on a plane to King’s Landing and for all either of them know, it could be another six months before they see each other again.

“I don’t want that,” Brienne says, without meaning to have spoken the words aloud. She rolls over awkwardly, bumping the cool canvas wall of the tent as she turns to face Jaime. She strokes the light scruff of his cheek for a moment before drawing him in for a long sweet kiss.

“I don’t want to go back to wondering when I’m going to see you again. I loved every minute of it, every late night, every stupid argument, all of it - but I don’t think I can go back to that, Jaime, not now.”

When Jaime sighs this time, she knows it’s real, there’s hurt there, the same worry that the new ground they’ve come to stand on will all be blown away with one false step.

“Then we won’t,” he says with a kiss to her brow. His mouth moves down to touch gently over the bridge of her nose, then across her cheek until he finds her lips again.

“What are we going to do?” Brienne asks as they break apart, resting her forehead against his.

She can feel Jaime smile again.

“Well, I can tell you one thing - I’m going to have you at least once before I leave this island so we had better be spending tomorrow night somewhere other than a buggering tent.”

-

Sansa had stayed for the drink.

On her near empty stomach, one of Margaery’s famous rose water margaritas had gone a long way. The girls had brought up some food from the main hall and Sansa had been grateful to share.

Dany, Mya, Myranda and a few girls Sansa didn’t know had squished together on the sofa, and found spots at the bar top in the tiny kitchen as Margaery had relayed the story of Sandor and Loras, all the while slicing limes and measuring tequila for another round of drinks.

There had been a car crash, Margaery had said - just after Loras had gotten his license, but instead of the usual exchange of insurance, the other driver had gone berserk, hauling her brother from the car and beating him senseless right there in the middle of the busy street. He would have killed him, Margaery said, if Sandor hadn’t arrived in time.

The driver had turned on him, and Sandor had fought back until they were stumbling and soaked in their own blood. As the horrified bystanders had pulled Loras to safety, they had watched as Sandor had taken one last hard swing, sending the driver out into traffic and into the path of an oncoming truck.

"No way," Mya says, her dark eyebrows raised halfway to the line of her hair. "And the man - your man," she adds, turning to Sansa, "what happened to him?"

"When the police came he was far too out of it to know what happened, he'd taken quite the beating too - seemed to think the whole thing had been his fault, even with the ten witnesses who saw him save Loras."

"What about the truck?" Myranda asks, tipping back her glass and downing the rest of her drink. "It was an accident, wasn't it?"

"I don't think anyone told him, and he was so sure he'd done it they were happy to make a case against him," Margaery says as she pops the blender from its base and makes to refill the nearest empty glass. "And they tried until the Lannisters arrived with their family lawyer, sprung him out of jail on the condition he'd throw some muscle behind their precious little Joffrey."

Sansa watches, listening intently as the girls each weigh in with their opinions. Margaery hadn't said, but Sansa knows exactly who the other driver had been.

The details are new to her, but she knows this is the story of what had happened between Sandor and his brother. That night on the beach, he had told her very little and she hadn't thought it right to press him. Now she knew, and now more than ever Sansa wanted to find him, tell him she was sorry for walking away and help him see that he could be forgiven.

Sansa makes her excuses and heads to the door, pausing to find her sandals amongst the jumble of shoes left by their visitors. In the seconds since she has risen from the sofa, the mood has already lightened considerably and as Dany calls for tequila shots, they're celebrating her victory, after all, Myranda turns up the music.

Before she heads out into the storm, the girls corner Sansa by the door shoving first a shot glass and then, when the glass is returned empty and Sansa can't help but smile back at their excited faces, a crumpled yellow rainslicker into her hands.

"I don't think so," Margaery says sliding in front of the door and blocking Sansa's escape. "You owe us - now spill, how big was it."

The margarita sits warm and comfortable in Sansa's belly and though the day has been an emotional up and down, somehow she's feeling good. 

With a somewhat embarrassed giggle she raises both hands and holds them a significant distance apart.

"I knew it!" Margaery shrieks and the girls melt into peals of delighted laughter. 

-

Sansa's first instinct had been to go down to the beach.

It wasn't likely that Sandor would head to the main hall, and he certainly wasn't going to be hanging around his cabin if Joffrey was indeed suffering from Dany's revenge.

The rain patters down over her head as she leaves the cover of the trees and walks down onto the sand. There’s a rumble of thunder and a distant spark of lightning somewhere far off, but the air is warm. The storm is clearing, passing over the island and heading northward and the faint blue patches of sky make Sansa feel determined and hopeful.

From the trailhead, she can see the length of the beach in both directions but the long stretch of sand is empty. For a moment she thinks of turning back, but the draw of the sloshing stormy sea is too much to resist, and she picks her way down the beach through the rocks and driftwood until she’s standing at the water’s edge.

It’s windier by the water, the deep blue of the sea is sending white tipped waves rushing up onto the smooth sand and for a moment Sansa watches the waves fall in and out. How could something so fierce be so calming?

She turns away and begins to walk along the beach, scanning the tree line where every few metres, a trail emerges from the dense wood. Only a few minutes pass before miraculously, wonderfully, a large hulking shape steps out from the trees. His back is turned to her as he begins to walk but even from this distance, she can tell - the height and breadth of him, long dark hair hanging wetly against his back and shoulders - it’s Sandor for sure.

Sansa feels a bubble of anticipation rise in her belly as she takes off after him, running clumsily through the wet sand.

“Sandor,” she shouts, “Sandor!”

He stops and turns, and as he looks at her his face is filled with such guarded rage it makes her heart ache for him. Had he spent all afternoon like this? All that anger burning him up from the inside out?

"Well fuck," Sandor says, turning away and bowing his head so that his rain soaked hair tumbles over his face.

The storm behind his eyes is a swirling cloud of rage to rival that of the sky and his body is taut and poised, ready to fight, and though Sansa isn’t afraid, it’s not meant for her, she still approaches him cautiously.

“I just want to talk,” she says and although her request is seemingly innocent, Sansa watches him tense, readying himself for the blow he expects to come. 

She steps tentatively forward and lays her hand, small and soft against the rough ridges of his knuckles and his fist clenches, harder still.

"Don't."

Don't what? She wonders. Don't touch, don't speak?

She exhales and grips him, running her thumb over the back of his hand.

"It's okay," she says. "I'm not angry."

Sandor laughs at her then, a short bark of disbelief. 

“You should be,” he says pulling his hand away sharply and palming his face hard before turning to glare at her. “The world is a fucking awful place, full of monsters like me - if you’re not angry, you haven’t been paying attention.”

“No, I don’t believe that,” she says firmly, with a shake of her head that sends a splash of raindrops from the hood of her slicker down onto her nose and cheeks.

He’s trying to push her into a fight, but she won’t let him. She can't begin to imagine the life he has had or the pains he has endured, but she knows that while he needs her patience he needs her encouragement too. The rage inside him is eating him alive, and she's going to do what she can to help him let it go.

“Oh? And what do you believe then? Aren't I enough proof?”

“No,” Sansa says again, keeping her voice strong and even. “I think there are awful things in this world but I think people are good - people can be good, even you.”

He turns on her, his smoky eyes alight and his lip pulls back in a snarl.

“You don't know anything about me.”

-

Sandor expects her to walk away.

And truth be told - isn’t that what he’s doing, trying to push her into taking the easy route and turning her back on him for the second time today? She had done it then, why not now?

Sandor glares down at her, pushing into her space with the intimidating breadth of his body. He can see the frustration in her face, the set of her jaw and the spark in her bright blue eyes and it only serves to make him angrier. She’s so fucking beautiful it hurts, and when she could be - should be - anywhere else, she’s standing here on a stormy beach offering him kindness, refusing to back down. 

“I know you're hiding behind hatred,” Sansa begins carefully, and though the set of her face remains hard and determined, her voice is soft and soothing. “I know that people have frightened you and bullied you, that they disappoint you when they do awful things and that it feels like it’s easier to scare everyone away, but you're more than that.”

Sandor feels her words like a stab in the guts, seven fucking hells - what right did she have? How could she know?

"You've got it all figured out then,” he says with a short sarcastic laugh. “So what is it that I want?

“You want a second chance, but you’ll never ask for one.”

The rain has all but completely stopped now, and the wind has died down to a warm drifting breeze. Somewhere far away Sandor can still hear the rumble of thunder, but the storm has moved on.

The anger that he has carried with him for so long sits heavy and constricting in his chest - what would it be like to just let go of a lifetime of pain and misery? Impossible, fucking impossible, he knows, but there’s something about the way she’s looking at him that makes him want to try. He’s a beast - a snarling, slavering beast and she’s… Sansa is sunshine and radiance and hope, worlds too good for him, but what if it were possible?

Sandor is reaching for her before he can stop the motion of his hand, and it settles on the shoulder of her damp slicker.

He wants to speak, but his voice is caught in his throat and so he takes a steadying breath, watching her. Sansa seems to know she’s right, something unspoken has passed between them and a soft smile settles on her lips.

Sansa reaches up to slide her hand under his and this time when her slender fingers grip him gently, he squeezes back.

“Come on,” she says, “let’s go inside, you’re soaked.”

-

They had gone up to the main hall. Sandor had taken a towel from the hut by the pool and dried his hair, as Sansa had gone inside. A few minutes later, she was back her arms full with something to eat, two bottles of beer, for later she had said, and a lantern tucked under one arm.

“I thought you might be hungry,” she had said with that same soft smile, and he had hurriedly taken both the plate and lantern from her before she had a chance to drop anything. 

Sandor had devoured it quickly - he hadn’t had a single thing to eat since that morning, and now that his clouded mind felt clearer, now that he had left a little of his anger back on that beach, he had realised just how hungry he had been. 

They hadn’t spoken much since leaving the beach, and when they had finished at the main hall, Sansa had once again taken his hand, leading him down the wooded path. As the rain had now stopped, the early evening sky flush with pinks and purples, and the large grey clouds had moved off to darken the sky in the distance, they left the busy hall behind them, heading off into the jungle.

Sandor doesn't know where she’s taking him, and he isn’t going to ask. There’s a careful sort of silence between them, and he’s afraid to break it. When she had met him on the beach, he had known Sansa had meant to talk about what had happened, about Petyr and Mycha and gods know what else - that conversation is still coming, he can feel it, but for now, there’s something else, something new and hopeful and he won’t say a word to change her mind.

They turn off the main path down a thin dirt track and walk deeper into the jungle until they reach the bottom of a steep wooden staircase that winds up into the trees.

Sandor catches her eye, his brow raised and she grins in response, heading up the stairs.

He hardly takes notice of where they’re going - not when just ahead of him, Sansa’s hips sway with each step she takes. He drags his eyes away from the tantalizing view and looks around. Large thick vines hang down like ropes, birds chatter and rustle in the branches and as they climb higher and higher the leafy canopy begins to clear. 

Sandor looks up at the structure overhead and can’t help but laugh. On thick wooden stilts, sits a little one room hut, built in much the same way as the cabins, tall dark timber frame, light and open with comfortable looking rattan furniture and a wide deck that overlooks the trees, the beach and the sea beyond - it’s a buggering honest to gods tree house.

He takes the last few steps slowly, momentarily stunned by the amazing view - from up here, the horizon stretches out for miles, the low orange sun, glittering off the water. He turns to find Sansa watching him, smiling carefully, her eyes wide and hopeful and he’s struck again, by the beauty of the scene. This time it’s her face, her hair blazing brightly in the golden light, the soft curve of her body underneath tanktop and tight jeans that he’s just dying to touch.

“Do you like it?” Sansa asks, and he swallows heavily.

It wasn’t enough that she seemed to genuinely want to spend time with him, that she had sought him out even after what had happened that afternoon - she had brought him here, to this beautiful secluded place and the look on her face… It was like he had been granted a reset, a do-over from their date - Sansa was giving him a second chance. 

“It’s… yeah, how did you find this place?” he asks, uncertain what to do with himself and feeling suddenly inadequate. He sets down the lantern on the floor by the sofa as Sansa twists the tops off both bottles of beer. She offers him one and he takes it, grateful for something to busy himself with. He rarely drinks anymore - in his experience, liquor had been a means of self medicating not a path to relaxation, but he holds the cool bottle in his hands, taking a few sips just to enjoy the feeling of sharing something with her.

“Margie told me about it,” Sansa says shyly, “she said it was a good place for... two people to watch the sunset.”

Ah. 

They sink down onto the sofa to enjoy the view, and a few moments of silence pass. Sandor can feel the tension building between them, but damn him if he knows what to do to break it. He could kiss her, and by the fucking gods is he sure she must want him too - why else would she have brought him here? Sunset, his fucking bollocks. But he needs to be certain, he needs her to make the first move.

“Sandor,” she says, setting her beer on the floor by her feet and turning to him. “May I ask you something?” 

He looks back at her, tilting his head just so - so that the worst of his face is hidden, and he nods for her to continue.

“I thought earlier today, in the water, you were going to…” Sansa trails off, chewing her lip. Her cheeks flush pink and she looks away, searching for her words. “I just wondered - would it be alright if…”

“Yes,” Sandor says shortly, whatever she’s asking for, she can have - he’ll give it to her gladly. There’s a single moment - a few hard raps of his heart against his ribs before she’s sitting up on her knees and sliding into his lap.

He can’t fucking breathe, his heart is pounding wildly in his ears and he looks up at her, radiant and golden in the setting sun. As natural as anything, his hands fall to her waist, pulling her against him so that her long legs straddle his wide frame.

Sansa smiles at him, her chest falling in and out with heavy breath - she’s nervous too, and somehow that calms him a little. She raises her hand, slowly, gently brushing away the hair from his face and rests her hand on his scarred cheek. Sandor tenses, resisting the urge to pull away, because as the feeling of her fingertips drift ghostly across his ruined skin, she lowers her mouth to his and kisses him.

-

Sansa barely needs both hands to count the number of boy she’s kissed.

In their own way, each experience - even horrible Harry, if she admits to it - had been pleasant, thrilling even while it had lasted, but she had never wanted much more than that. Certainly there had been a little groping, a time or two her top had found its way onto the floor and once or twice when a hand had slipped up her skirt to tease at the silk of her smallclothes - it had always been good, but it had never been like this. 

This is everything - and Sansa kisses him and kisses him and kisses him.

His mouth moves steadily under hers, lips soft and sure, and his hands grip at her sides as though he’s afraid she might slip away with one gust of the warm breeze.

“Gods, Sansa,” he rasps, leaning into her and pressing the good side of his face against her throat.

Sansa drags her hands through his hair, pulling his head back so that she can look into his eyes.

“It’s okay,” she says - needing him to believe it. 

Sansa presses into him, her own small hands moving from his face to his neck, to grip at the muscle of his shoulders, pulling him closer as if to reassure him. She wants this - she wants him, more than she’s ever wanted anyone before.

And for all she can tell, the feeling is utterly mutual - Sandor pulls his mouth from hers and tips his head back, breathing harshly. He meets her eye and she sees the faint twitch of a smile before he’s grasping the back of her head and pulling her down for another deep kiss. This time, his free hand finds its way up her side, travelling roughly from her hip to her waist to settle on her ribs. She whimpers softly, arching into the heat of his touch and he takes the invitation to run his hand up and over her breasts, grazing her tight nipples through the thin material of her top. 

Sansa feels alive, electric - as though every point of contact between them is setting off sparks. She digs her fingers into the fabric of his shirt, tugging at it uselessly until he sits back and pulls it over his head. The sight of his bare chest sends a torrent of memory streaming through Sansa’s mind - Sandor sitting on the dock, rising to face her, naked head to toe, graceful, fearsome, and beautiful, so beautiful.

Sansa trails her hands over his chest, touching first, the metal dogtags on their long silver chain, then into the smooth path of thick dark hair, and down his ribs, over his belly and back up to grip at his arms. She could spend hours touching him, the feel of his skin under her fingertips - she wants to trace each and every picture inked into his skin and lay a kiss on every scar.

Unable to help herself, Sansa bends to place her lips against his breastbone, kissing him softly and when she pulls away to look into his eyes, there’s still a hint of disbelief shadowed in the stormy grey.

“Sandor,” she says, bringing her hand to his face and gently running her fingertips across his cheek, “this is real, and it is good.”

-


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaime gets a phonecall, Sansa has a revelation and Sandor realizes he doesn't know the first thing about dating.

Sandor had lit the lantern a few hours later.

He had held her, kissed her, touched her, until they had both been breathless with wanting and Sansa had said it was time to stop.

As he had kissed her, his uneven mouth leaving hot trails down her neck, his hands sliding up and under her top, Sansa had ground her hips into his, creating the most delicious friction between their still clothed bodies. The softness of her skin beneath his fingers had been nothing like he had ever felt - the sweet scent of her, the taste of her against his tongue. Sandor had wanted to consume her, fill her - make her sing.

They had made their way back through the jungle, and Sandor, holding the lantern high in front of them to light their path, had walked with her until they had reached her cabin. As they had stopped outside, only paying half a mind to keeping out of sight of the still lit windows, Sansa had kissed him goodbye - her mouth lingering against his, and she had asked to see him again the next day. He had felt the warmth of her smile, her joy - and it had gripped him tighter than any feeling of lust ever could.

For a brief moment - wholly unfamiliar as it was, he had felt wanted.

 

He had returned to his cabin to find it blissfully silent, and without pretence Sandor had gone straight to the showers, flipping the tap and shedding his clothes to step under the hot steamy spray. For the second time in as many days, he had brought himself to shuddering release thinking of Sansa.

Sandor had bolted the bedroom door when he had finally gone to bed late that night, and he had awoken early to the sound of tense voices in the other room. He had groaned, it had to be five in the fucking morning, what in the seven hells could Cersei possibly be so angry about now?

“Jaime,” he had heard her hiss. “I don’t know what you’re doing that’s so important you can’t pick up your bloody phone, gods be damned, I need you. The Tyrells called last night, they want to drop Joffrey’s contract.”

-

Brienne had woken early.

Thankfully the rain had stopped early into the night and her pack was well on it’s way to drying out by the time she slipped from Jaime’s tent out into the clear moring light. She had wanted to stay - it had pained her to leave him, perfect and golden, sleep touseled and completely kissable but she wasn’t about to announce to the crew that they had rather suddenly begun sharing a bed.

She had already prepared herself for another busy day of shooting, and she was just finishing her breakfast when Jaime had finally appeared.

The comfortable calm that had settled his features while he slept was now long gone. His brow knit tight, he had worn such a look of sour indignation, Brienne had been wary to approach him. She had stood close beside him as he had collected his breakfast, lowering her voice so that only he could hear.

“Is there something wrong?” She had asked, hoping fervently it had nothing to do with the events of the night previous.

“Everything,” Jaime had said dismissively, taking a sip of too hot coffee and hissing as it burnt his tongue. He had looked at her then, and Brienne had known he had seen the worry on her face.

Jaime had set his coffee down and took a half step closer, slipping his hand into hers for the briefest second and squeezing gently. He had smiled - warm and genuine, and that more than anything, reassured her.

“Nothing,” he amended, “not today.”

Brienne had been surprised at just how many kisses Jaime had been able to sneak throughout the course of a day’s filming. There was always someone around - cast or crew were always nearby, but he seemed to find perfect stolen moments, just when no one was looking to press his lips against her neck. Brienne had scolded him terribly for it though deep down, she had loved every last touch.

-

Sansa wakes to the dip of her mattress, the weight of a body near her side.

“That was quite a show you two put on last night,” Margaery says, and Sansa moans, pulling the covers up to hide her face.

Sansa peeks out from under the sheets, blinking in the bright morning light and Margaery grins at her.

“What did you see?”

Sansa is utterly embarrassed - she had known the girls would be up well into the night, and while it would have been smart to keep out of sight of the cabin as she and Sandor had said goodbye, Sansa had been too lost in the moment to care.

She had given him one last kiss, her mouth craving one more taste of his - and she had asked to see him again, hoping it wouldn’t be too much too soon. Sandor hadn’t seemed put off by her interest, quite the opposite in fact. That one last kiss had turned into another, and then another, until he had lifted her, his broad hands on her hips, and crushed her hard against him. Sansa had held on tight, wrapping her legs around his waist, drawing him so close she could feel him, hard and wanting, pressed against the seam of her shorts.

Sandor had groaned - a dark needy sound against her throat and she had shivered with longing of her own, before he had set her down and stepped back so that they were well apart.

“Tomorrow,” he had said, his voice a deep rasp. She had nodded, drawing her teeth across her swollen lips.

“Sweet dreams, little bird,” Sandor had said, and then he had gone.

-

“Just a hot little something, something,” Margaery says fanning herself. “If that’s just the opening act, the girls just can’t wait for the floorshow - not that we were trying to look, of course,” she adds unconvincingly.

“Oh, no,” Sansa whines, flushing red hot and ducking under the covers again. Margaery prods her gently, tugging at the sheet.

“Oh, yes! C’mon, doll, time to get up.”

Sansa snakes a hand out from under the sheet to grab her mobile from the nightstand, and groans when she sees the time.

“Margie, it’s six am, couldn’t you at least wait until a reasonable hour to totally embarrass me?"

“Nope, there’s a yoga class down by the pool in twenty minutes,” Margaery says, and she sounds so astoundingly chipper that Sansa can hardly believe her friend spent the night tossing back tequila shots. “And,” she adds with a knowing smirk, “if I were you, and I planned on getting a little more something, something, from a guy like that, I’d definitely want to improve my flexibility.”

“Okay,” Sansa says, giggling despite herself, “I’m up.”

-

A few hours later, Sansa leaves the main hall and heads back to her room for a little peace.

During yoga, she had done her very best to focus her mind and centre her energy, but it had been a hopeless attempt. Every bend and flex of her body had seemed to only make her more aware of the places Sandor had touched her, and by the end of class she had hardly thought of anything else - Margaery’s waggling eyebrows hadn’t helped much either.

During breakfast, Margaery had kept her busy, offering what was probably far too much information on the virtues of yoga and their applications in the bedroom. Sansa had sipped her tea, watching the distant view of the beach - clear blue water and soft waves rolling onto the sand - only paying half attention to her friend’s so called advice.

“But what am I saying all this for,” Margaery laughed, shaking her head and Sansa had looked at her then. “All you need to know right now, doll, is how to make sure when that sweet little cherry of yours is finally popped, it’s everything you want it to be and more."

Sansa was listening then - and though she had inwardly cringed a little at the colourful expression, Margaery was right.

Sansa had thought about sex, she had talked about it, with her sister, with her friends - but until the last few days, she hadn't given it much consideration in an 'actually going to have it sort of way'.

She didn't know when, but she was sure that if things continued on the way they were going, it would be sooner, rather than later. 

Sansa had smiled to herself, she was okay with that, she was excited by that - she was ready.

She was confident that Sandor would be gentle with her - if it was going to be him, of course, she had reminded herself, trying not to get too too far ahead of herself. And Sansa was confident too, that though she hadn't had much practical experience, she would learn quickly how to please him. She delighted in the thought of learning how - how they would learn the secrets of each other's bodies, take care in finding each other's pleasure.

He would be gentle with her, and if last night was any indication, she would sing for him without a doubt.

-

Sansa kicks off her sandals and flops onto the bed, reaching for her mobile, this time tapping in her passcode and opening her messages. Just as she had promised Arya, Sansa had left her phone alone and done her very best to enjoy herself.

Messages: 1 unread

Yesterday: 6:44 pm

Arya is Awesome: Gendry wants to know if the guys are actually flying free or if they make them wear those flesh coloured modesty socks. Miss you Sanny. Hope you’re having fun.

Sansa can’t help but laugh as she types back a quick message: Tell Gendry there are no modesty socks, but there are chili peppers. I’ll save it for when I get back - it’s a good one ;)

Sansa hits send and then begins another message: I met someone, and I’m having a great time. Miss you too xo

Sansa closes her messages and hits the little red circle that indicates a voicemail, listening as her mother’s voice erupts from the speaker.

Voicemail: 1 new

Yesterday 4:17 pm

Hello my darling girl! I spoke to Uncle Petyr - he said you ran into each other yesterday and darling, he seemed to think… Well I do hope you’re being safe about things. Robb and Jeyne picked a date, six weeks tomorrow! We’re all dying to see you - and Arya too, it’s been too long since the we had the whole family back at Winterfell. I do wish you’d taken the internship I’d offered, at least you’d be home for the summer and I’d have an extra pair of hands. It’s been busy busy getting ready for the Blue Lantern festival, and now with a wedding to plan too. Never mind, darling, enjoy your holiday - and for the seven’s sake, be safe!

Sansa pulls the phone from her ear and deletes the message, scrolling through her calendar to mark the date of her brother’s wedding. Of course her mother had mentioned the internship. Nearly every time they had spoken coming up to the end of term, she had pressed Sansa with the job.

Catelyn Stark had been an associate director at the Westeros Film Board for many years, overseeing the production of documentaries and educational film throughout the country. The internship would have had Sansa working at her mother’s side, immersed in arts and culture, poetry, history, song - and more than that it would have been a significant bolster to her degree.

Before the end of term, when Catelyn had asked her time and again to accept the job and return home, Sansa had refused. Just as she had refused a place at her father’s beloved college.

Going to King’s University had been everything she thought she had wanted - all the excitement of the big city and a chance to break out on her own, to feel like a proper lady in her own little flat. And it had been all that, big and exciting - but it had also been busy, hot and fast-paced with none of the Northern charm Sansa had grown up with. It was a different world, and the more Sansa thought about it, the more she thought it was one where she didn’t belong.

It had been so lonely, especially after her friend Jeyne had left, and though Sansa had tried to make it work, throwing herself into her classes and focussing on her studies, and it had been that way until Arya had arrived.

As isolated as she had felt, Sansa hadn’t been ready to give up on King’s Landing and to her, taking an internship with her mother, instead of spending the summer in the capitol felt like giving in.

Sansa stretches back on the soft clean covers of her bed, thinking of Joffrey Baratheon. He had been what she had thought she wanted, too, hadn’t he. Exciting, beautiful on the outside and well….

Not everything was as it appears, was it?

She thinks of Sandor then - the way he had been when she had first met him on the beach - gruff, mean and downright terrifying, nothing at all like the boys she had dated. He’s nothing like what she thought she had wanted.

He’s wild and deep, she thinks - like the Godswood, harsh and biting like the sting of winter’s snow, strong and secure like the castle her family calls home, with a surprising, welcoming warmth that feels like first spring.

Sandor reminds her of home.

-

Sansa is about to drop her phone back on the nightstand when it buzzes in her hand, tinkling with the sound of an incoming call.

“Since when did you change your name in my phone to Arya is Awesome,” Sansa says sliding from the bed and unlatching the wide double doors. A rush of salty sea air flows through the room, dancing through the curtains and tickling the ends of Sansa’s hair against her bare shoulders.

“You had it saved as ‘little sis’” Arya says with a laugh. “Everyone knows no one actually says that, it was cheesy.”

“I thought it was sweet,” Sansa counters.

“Of course you would,” Arya says, scoffing. “Hey tell me about the guy. Lemme guess, he’s tall, blonde, shiny, polite, poops solid gold, the usual?”

“Arya!”

“What you have a type. What’s his name?”

“Sandor. And he’s nothing like that at all, except for tall - he’s very tall.”

“You’re kidding,” Arya says, and Sansa thinks she sounds genuinely stunned. “Tall, dark, dirty and mean? And -“

“Arya!”

“Maybe I’ll actually, I don’t know, not hate the guy you’re dating for a change.”

Sansa laughs - it was true, until this point, Arya had flat out loathed every one of Sansa’s potential boyfriends.

“I’d say you might actually like him, but with my luck you’ll probably hate each other, you’re too much alike.”

“Then at least he’s a step up from d-bag. Is he coming to the wedding?”

Sansa wanders out onto the deck and leans on the railing, looking out past the trees towards the beach.

“I don’t know,” Sansa says, “isn’t it a little soon to be inviting him to my brother’s wedding?”

“You tell me.”

She pauses for a moment, letting her mind wander to an image of Sandor dressed smartly in a suit and tie - oh he would look good in black, and imagines him tense and guarded, meeting her mother and father, imagines the way she’d sit snugly next to him in the sept, the way she’d have to sweet-talk him onto the dance floor with promises of what they’d do later, and finally, later on when the party was over, she imagines taking the time to slowly, sweetly make good on her word.

It’s new - brand new, this thing they have, but Sansa knows she wants more.

“Yeah,” Sansa hums, “maybe I will…”

Arya laughs at her, “you are so done for.”

“What?”

“I can practically see your heart-eyes from here,” Arya teases. “You tell mister man that if he does anything to hurt you I’ll fuck him up good - no matter how good he looks in a modesty sock.”

“Ugh, Arya - I told you, the guys are just naked, totally naked,” Sansa laugh, and then adds, “and it’s okay, he’s not gonna hurt me.”

“He better not or I will kill him. No joke, Sanny, he’ll go straight to the top of my list.”

“I believe you.”

“Hey so I’ve kinda got some news,” Arya says, sounding suddenly more serious. “You know Robb and Jeyne picked a date, right?”

“Mhhm.”

“Well, Gendry and I were talking about it and we thought, why not drive back to Winterfell? Make a road trip out of it, and then he said he’d been itching to get out of the city for a while now, and I said I’d always wanted to see the Riverlands, and then we got to talking about going over to Braavos and one thing led to another and -“

Sansa feels her stomach fall, the clear radiant happiness she had carried throughout the morning faltering a little.

“And what?”

“I’m gonna move out, Sanny.”

“Oh.”

“It’s time. I mean I’ve loved living with you - it’s the most like friends we’ve ever been, I don’t even think you’ve called me Arya horseface once since I’ve been in KL, but it’s time, you know? I wanna see the world, and Gendry wants to see it with me. You’re not upset are you?”

Sansa takes a deep breath.

“No, of course not. Of course not,” she says, and it’s the truth. She could never be mad at her sister for following her dreams. If anything, Sansa thinks, she feels a little jealous, suddenly a little lost. Would there be anything to keep her in the city if Arya wasn’t there anymore?

Sure she had another semester at school coming up, but she could always transfer couldn’t she? Maybe this was a sign? Maybe it was time to go home.

“I think it’s great,” Sansa says. “And I’ve been thinking for a while now… Maybe King’s Landing isn’t right for me either.”

“Oh gods, I’m so glad you said that,” Arya says in a rush. “I can totally see why you wanted to come, but man, I just can’t take it anymore - and I thought, you know, you haven’t seemed very happy lately. Why else would you fly off to the summer isles to prance around naked in front of a camera?”

“I wanted to break out a little, do something wild for a change,” Sansa says, reaffirming the reason she had given Arya weeks ago. There’s still some truth to it - but there’s truth to what Arya had said too.

“Whatever you say, Sanny, I just want you to be happy, okay?”

“Yeah, me too,” Sansa says with a sigh. “I mean, you too. So when do you guys leave?”

“Next week.”

“Arya - that’s so soon!”

“Why wait,” Arya says simply as though she’s shrugging. “It’s not like I’m leaving before you get home."

“I’m gonna miss you.”

“Me too, Sanny,” Arya says, and from somewhere down the line, Sansa hears the barking of dogs, and her sister moving to answer the door. “Gotta go, okay, Gendry is here - he’s helping me list all my shit on cregan’s list.”

“Okay,” Sansa sighs, “see you soon, little sis.”

-

Sandor hadn’t forgotten Joffrey’s demand,

The name Martell had stuck in the back of his mind, not just because it belonged to Joffrey’s latest would-be victim, but because Sandor was certain he had heard it somewhere before.

When his mind hadn’t been overflowing with everything that was Sansa - her scent, her light, her laughter, her taste, her voice, the feel of her in his hands, the memory of yesterday afternoon when he had briefly seen what was underneath her clothes and the reminder that there was a serious possibility he’d see it all again - the name Martell had continued to creep into the corners of his thoughts, taunting him with an importance he couldn’t place. He had gone for a long run, had breakfast in the main hall well before the partygoers had dragged themselves out of bed, and gone down to the beach, all the while trying to place the name.

Sandor had sat and watched the sea roll in and out, focussing on the name, and he had come up with nothing - nothing but a yellow, no red sun, and a cross maybe… He didn’t know what it meant, and he didn’t know why it was so important.

Even when he had com face to face with the boy whose head Joffrey had so arrogantly called for, it still hadn’t made sense.

A group of boys had come down the beach and stopped nearby to set up a volleyball net. Sandor hadn’t paid them much attention until the very name he had been so fixated upon had caught his ear.

When the boys had broken up their game an hour later, Sandor had cornered Quentyn Martell, barring his way at the trailhead.

Martell had listened carefully to the warning Sandor had given him - that it was in his best interest to get the hell off this island until Joffrey’s bollocks had healed, and he had thanked Sandor for the heads up.

Before the boy had ran to catch up with his friends, Sandor had given in and asked for Martell’s help in return.

“Tell me something - do you know why the name Martell has me thinking of a sun?”

“Sure, the speared sun,” the boy had nodded, “that’s our company logo, it’s on all of our trucks.”

Martell, a speared red sun and a truck, a yellow truck…

It was important, Sandor was certain, but what in the seven buggering hells did it all mean?

 

With his task complete, and the early afternoon so far blissfully Lannister-free, Sandor had found himself heading in the direction of Sansa’s cabin before he had really known what he was doing.

Sansa had asked to see him again, sure, but they hadn’t exactly made any plans and though he had set out with purpose, he comes to a standstill in the middle of the path, wondering just what in the seven hells he’s doing.

So he was just going to show up empty handed at her front door? And then what?

Ask her on a date, you fucking fool, a mocking little voice in his mind supplies.

Yeah, like it was that easy. Beyond the time he had spent with Sansa over the last few days, his experience with women had been limited to not much more than a series of drunken - almost always on the part of the women, dirty fucks, often in the alley behind some winesink or on the tailgate of his truck. He doesn’t know the first thing about dating, or romance or any of that shit.

Sandor knows that he likes her - a whole fucking lot, truth be told, and he’s almost certain, gods be damned, that with one wrong move he’ll blow the whole thing.

He’s in way the fuck over his head.

Sandor is just about to turn around and walk away - any other direction than down the path leading to Sansa’s cabin when he catches sight of something blue in the thick brush. He’s not one to spend time wandering through the woods and sniffing the flowers, but the colour - so vibrant and jewel bright, it’s just the colour of her eyes, and he can’t help but reach out and touch it.

It’s not a flower - it’s a feather, long, slim and delicate.

Sandor pulls it from the tangle of leaves, rolling the stem between his thumb and forefinger before turning back in the direction of Sansa’s cabin, trying to ignore that same unhelpful little voice in the back of his head assuring him that he’s about to thoroughly embarrass himself.

He stops just a few metres up the path from her cabin, feather still held firm but gently in one hand, and listens to the sound of female voices drifting through down from the deck.

“And then,” one of them was saying, her voice breaking with laughter, “Dany here decides she’s going to go streaking through the woods yelling ‘I AM THE DRAGON’S DAUGHTER’ so loudly that the boys from next door came out back and started throwing limes from that tree.”

Sure enough, Sandor looks over to see a large lime tree just in reach of the deck of the nearest cabin.

The girl pauses for breath and continues, “and when we figured out what they were doing, we all came outside and made enough of a racket until they’d thrown enough limes for us to take them back inside and make another batch of margaritas.”

“I’m sorry I missed it,” another voice says - Sansa’s voice, and his heart jumps hard in his chest.

Now or never, then. Sandor rounds the last few steps and comes into view of the cabin.

“No you’re not,” the third voice, Dany, it must be, teases. “And believe me, you’re not sorry you missed out on the headache. Whatever your secret is, Margie - I need some of whatever you’ve...”

The girls notice him immediately, Dany trailing off awkwardly at the sight of him before looking away - anywhere but at his face.

Seven buggering hells, he hated when people did that.

Sansa looks surprised to see him, her sweet pink mouth opening softly. The thought of kissing her all but drives any momentary discomfort from his mind and her eyes meet his before she smiles. 

“Dany,” the other girl says, hoisting her friend up by the elbow and dragging her from her chair towards the door. “Sansa can hear the rest of the story later, can’t you, doll?”

“Mhhm,” Sansa nods, standing too - not to go into the cabin, but to come down from the deck towards him. She stops halfway down the steps, and with the extra height, they’re almost eye to eye.

“Hello, again,” she says and with a quick look over her shoulder to make sure her friends have gone inside, Sansa leans in to kiss him.

-


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa takes things into her own hands, things go surprisingly well for a while, and Brienne gets a call from Pod.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i thought of waiting a while before posting, but i figured you lovely readers have done enough waiting already, so here's another chapter. thanks for all your awesome comments - each and every one has been such great encouragement for the muse <3
> 
> be warned, my darlings - there is smut ahead!

Sandor had been momentarily struck dumb.

 

How was it that he could beat a man to a bloody pulp without blinking but the simple, sweet touch of her lips to his felt like it could drop him to his knees. Her kiss had been a brief, gentle thing - nothing like the way they had said goodbye the night before, but he had felt it down to his bones all the same.

 

Sansa pulls away, smiling shyly and he takes a step back, pulling a hand through his hair, dragging it up and out of his eyes so that he can look at her properly.

 

Gods she’s beautiful.

 

Head to toe, inside and out - Sansa is radiant and graceful, warm and sweet, everything he isn’t.

 

He’s heard stories, a beast transformed into a well mannered prince with the magic of a maiden’s kiss, but they’re just fantasy. No matter how good her lips feel on his, there’s no way he can change overnight.

 

He’s going to fuck this up - if he hadn’t by some miracle already, if not today, then tomorrow. Somewhere down the road, everything would go up in flames - the good things in his life always had, and though he wants so badly for there to be a tomorrow - for there to be a ‘somewhere down the road’ he can’t help but think she’ll figure it out. Sansa will see him for what he is and this whole fucking fairy tale will shatter.

 

Sandor feels the tickle of the feather against his palm and he thinks momentarily of letting it go, letting it tumble away on the breeze before he can make a buggering fool of himself.

 

“Did you want to… maybe, I mean, I’m not doing anything right now and if you’re…” Sansa says, her face flushing with embarrassment. She bows her head and takes a breath before trying again. “We could go for a walk, there’s a village near here - if you want.”

 

“Yeah,” he says, his voice barely more than a deep rumble.

 

“Okay, great,” Sansa says brightly. “I’ll just get my bag and we can go.”

 

She turns away towards the cabin, and before he realizes what he’s doing, Sandor reaches for her hand, drawing the pad of his thumb from her wrist to the tips of her fingers.

 

“Hang on,” he says. “I have something for you, little bird.”

 

“You do?” Her eyes are wide again, lips parted and she watches intently as he draws the feather across her palm, closing her fingers over it gently.

 

Sansa bites her lip, her chest rises and falls with a heavy breath.

 

“That’s for me?” She asks, her brow raising, as she takes the feather between her fingers. 

 

“Nevermind,” Sandor says, unwilling to hear her rejection.

 

“No - it’s beautiful, thank you,” she says firmly, and suddenly she’s kissing him again, pressing against him, opening her mouth to his. It’s nothing like the gentle greeting she had given him moments ago - her mouth is open and wet, and he drinks in the taste of her.

 

He’s going to fuck this up, he’s certain of it, but if it does go up in flames, at least he’ll go down fighting. He may be a fool - but he’s not a coward.

 

-

 

Sansa had done most of the talking as they walked through the jungle and out towards the village.

 

As she had pulled away, the taste of him still on her tongue, she had held tight to the feather Sandor had placed in her hand. It was beautiful, so blue and so soft against her skin. When she had gone inside to get her bag, grabbing a bottle of water, sunscreen and a little money, Sansa had carefully tucked away her gift inside the book on her nightstand.

 

It had been so unexpectedly sweet of him - and Sansa felt truly warmed by the gesture. She had wondered if Sandor had ever done anything like that before, he had certainly seemed unsure of himself.

 

On their walk, Sansa had tried to subtly reassure him that everything was okay. She had found little excuses to touch him, and she had taken the lead in conversation, telling him a little more about herself and commenting on the beautiful scenery.

 

She had asked him questions too, and though Sandor had answered, he had seemed hesitant. It wasn’t as though he had been cold or disinterested - it was, she had known, that he simply wasn’t used to the attention. Had anyone, she wondered, ever taken the time to get to know him?

 

And she had wanted to get to know him - to learn more about him, to continue to make him laugh, to watch his face relax and his lips quirk in that way of his she’d come to recognize as a smile of his own. Though she had stuck to simple things, avoiding any topic that might drag up uncomfortable memories from his sordid past, Sansa was curious about that side of him too.

 

How had he come to work for the Lannisters? Why was he still under their control when they obviously treated him so poorly? How could he do the disgusting things they had asked of him?

 

Sandor had told her about his brother, but the way that he had made it seem… It was as though he thought himself guilty of something much more than a horrible accident. How could he not see that he had done good - he had stepped in to save Margaery’s brother and put himself at risk.

 

Perhaps, in time, she could ask him these things too and though she knew she might not like it, just as she had been shocked and disturbed to learn that he had been in part responsible for what had happened at the Guild Hall, Sansa was prepared to accept him - whatever it might be.

 

Without the drifting sea breeze to cool the air, Sansa is feeling the heat all the more as they walk down the long dirt track that leads into town. She had never been fond of the heat in King’s Landing, preferring the cooler climate of the north and here on the island, it’s hotter still. She feels sweaty and uncomfortable, her clothes clinging to her body and when Sandor suggests they find somewhere to get out of the sun, she’s quick to agree.

 

The village is like nothing Sansa has ever seen before, so bright and lively - the people, friendly and open, happy to talk to her as she and Sandor had passed through a large market square at the centre of town. The market is made up of brightly coloured tents, each decorated with flowers, beads and feathers brighter and more colourful still, no matter what the merchant might have to offer. Sansa looks around in awe, taking it all in as they pass through the lane of stalls, coming to stop at a large stone fountain.

 

She looks up to study the statue standing in the centre of the water - a beautifully detailed woman, shapely and imposing, decorated with carved feathers, just like so many of the islanders seem to wear. Sansa knows only a little about the gods of the summer isles - she knows there are more than twenty, different from the northern gods and the faith of the seven, and that above all, islanders paid favour to their deities of love and fertility. This must be one of them, she thinks.

 

Sansa had been content to stay at the fountain, dipping her fingers into the splashing, shimmering water as Sandor had gone back towards the market to find them something cool to drink.

 

She had watched him walk away - a whole head and shoulders taller than any of the villagers, her eyes followed him easily through the crowd, and she had found herself thinking of that exquisite body hidden underneath his clothes.

 

“You make a good match, child,”

 

Sansa turns at the sound of the voice, and she finds an old woman at her side, her dark shining eyes crinkled with a knowing smile.

 

The woman pats her hand, and nods humming to herself. “You honour the gods each time you join.”

 

“Pardon me?” Sansa sputters, turning pink, she didn’t hear what she thinks she did, did she?

 

“Join, child, join - when you welcome such a man to your bed, it brings great honour,” the woman repeats. “If I were twenty-two not eighty-two, oh we would give honour to the gods that made us, you are lucky, child, ripe and beautiful with such a handsome warrior!”

 

The old woman cackles, tipping her head back so that the colourful feathers woven throughout her thin white hair flutter in the breeze.

 

Sansa opens her mouth to say something - though what she isn’t sure. She doesn’t know what to make of the old woman, with her glittering black eyes and wide crooked smile.

 

“I know, I know, child, you Westerosi, you do things differently. But don’t think I don’t know why you all come to our little isle.”

 

“It’s a popular place for a holiday?” Sansa manages, feeling distinctly embarrassed.

 

“Hah! That’s what they say - but we know better, they come to honour the gods of love, to seek their blessing, to find their hearts! That is why you came, isn’t it?”

 

“I… I don’t know, I suppose,” Sansa admits. She had wanted excitement, adventure, to shed her good girl image, to shake the feeling that everything in her life just wasn’t going the way she had wanted. Deep down, there had been something more to it too, she had been hoping to find something lasting and true.

 

“And have you found it?” The old woman says, squeezing Sansa's hand in her own, bony and wrinkled.

 

“I don’t know,” Sansa says surprised at just how willing her mouth had been to form the word ‘yes’.

 

“No?” The woman laughs again, nodding to Sansa as she begins to shuffle away. “Go to the lover’s temple, make your offering, the gods will help you see.”

 

Sansa turns back to the fountain feeling somehow both heart warmed and a little scandalized.

 

“Did you make a friend?” Sandor asks, and Sansa jumps at the sound of his deep rasp. She spins on the spot to find him looking down at her - it should be impossible, she thinks, for someone like him to move so stealthily.

 

He holds out a paper cup and a long pink straw, and when she takes it, Sandor comes to her side, leaning back against the fountain, sipping at his own drink.

 

“Lemonade?” Sansa asks.

 

“The other night - you said you liked lemons,” he says gruffly.

 

“I do,” she says, feeling pleasantly surprised that he had remembered.

 

“Good,” he says, his mouth curling into a slight smile. “Cause that’s all they had.”

 

Sansa laughs, shoving into him playfully. The space between them has all but disappeared, and Sansa is happy to keep it that way, to feel him big and firm and warm, pressed up against her side.

 

“Do you know what that old woman said to me?”

 

“What?”

 

“She told me to make an offering at the lover’s temple.”

 

Sandor nearly chokes on his drink. 

 

“She did now?” He says, recovering quickly and looking down at her, mouth quirked as though he’s out to tease. “And do you know just what kind of gift the lover’s temple accepts from it’s visitors?”

 

“Something tells me it’s more than just lighting a candle.”

 

Sandor laughs low and deep, and he leans down to her then, his breath ghosting the sensitive skin at her throat. 

 

“Much more than that,” he says, and Sansa gasps as his mouth touches the spot where her neck joins her shoulder. The feeling of it runs straight through her, pooling in her belly and making her knees weak. 

 

“Oh,” Sansa breathes, looking up at him as he pulls away. “Maybe another time?”

 

Sandor laughs again, “if you say so, little bird.”

 

“Should we get going,” he adds, “or do you want to wait around for that crazy old crone to come back give you directions?”

 

Sansa smiles, slipping her hand into his.

 

“She wasn’t completely bonkers - she did say you were handsome.”

 

Sandor’s head quirks and he looks down at her, eyes narrowed.

 

“Must’ve been blind  _ and _ crazy, then.”

 

-

 

Sandor had begun to wonder what he had ever done to deserve a day like today. 

 

They had made a great afternoon for themselves, and he had even been able to shed some of the uncertainty that had weighed over him when he had arrived on Sansa’s doorstep.

 

They had wandered back through the market, stopping to get a bite to eat from a street vendor, afterwards going to check out some of the nearby temples. Like the fountain at the village square each temple was beautifully carved and decorated to suit the god or goddess it honoured.

 

To satisfy Sansa’s curiosity, they had even passed the lover’s temple. Though she had caught his meaning and understood the physical nature of the offerings the islanders gave to their gods of love, she had still blushed scarlet to the roots of her hair at the sight of the detailed little figures carved into the temple walls - men and women, tangled together, naked and joined in the most astonishing poses.

 

Sandor had watched her study the figures, the way her mouth parted in a little ‘o’ of surprise as she tilted her head this way and that. She had looked back at him, heat in her eyes and a shy little smile on her lips.

 

“I think I’ve seen enough,” she had said with a breathy laugh and added, “Margaery was sure right about that yoga.”

 

Sandor didn’t know what she had meant - and quite honestly, he had a hard time caring about much of anything while Sansa was looking at him like that.

 

In the late afternoon, just as the sun had begun to drop, wide and orange, towards the treetops, they had left the village and made their way back to the retreat. The walk back had seemed to take half the time and soon, they were back to Sansa’s cabin. 

 

Neither of them had been willing to part just yet, and when Sansa had invited him inside her cabin - checking first to make sure that both Margaery and Dany were nowhere to be seen, he had been happy to follow her.

 

More than happy, truth be told. Sandor had been thinking about touching her all afternoon, and while his hand had found its way to her shoulder, or her back, though she had linked her fingers with his and even, to his great pleasure, stolen a few sweet kisses - he could not help himself wanting more. By the gods he wanted more.

 

Over time, he had become used to hard knocks, hostile fists and rough bodies, and even when he had been with women, it had never been affectionate - not like this.

 

Sandor had never been touched so much in a single day - hells, he had probably been touched more today than he had been in a whole year, fights and fisticuffs aside. He had been starved for so long, but instead of finding satisfaction, the hollow inside him only seemed to grow more hungry. Sansa was sublime - and he was hungry for her.

 

He had followed her inside the cabin, her hand finding its way into his and she had led him towards her room, pushing the door closed behind them.

 

Before either of them had even thought to switch on a light, he had lifted her in his arms claiming her mouth and tasting her, devouring her. His body had demanded to feel her, ached to be inside her, and his blood burned with the heat of her - each of Sansa’s gasps and moans, only pushing him higher.

 

She had responded so openly, so ardently, that Sandor could hardly believe it - this woman, held tight in his arms, she wanted him -  _ him _ .

 

Breathlessly they had pulled away, and Sansa had dropped her head to rest on his chest, her cheek against his rapidly beating heart.

 

“Wait,” she had said, stepping back and holding up her hand to keep a the space between them. His fingers had itched to follow her, desperate for any point of contact, to grip her, to bring her back to the circle of his arms, but he had let her go.

 

“It’s okay,” Sansa had said, crossing to the nightstand and flipping on the lamp so that the dim bedroom was filled with soft yellow light. She had turned back to him, and Sandor had felt the blood run straight to his cock at the sight of her, tousled hair, flushed cheeks and swollen lips, bare neck and shoulders, the thin straps of her top slack on her arms. “I just want to see you.”

 

Well,  _ fuck. _

 

Sansa had reached for him then, drawing him towards her and he had watched her eyes move over him, coming to rest on his face as he had stepped swiftly towards her. In another step, Sandor had her flat on the bed, laid out beneath him, and his mouth had found hers again as his hands had begun to explore.

 

She was fucking perfection - and the only thing better than the feel of her under him, was her soft slim fingers gripping at his shoulders, stroking down his back and sliding up and under his tshirt.

 

Sandor had sat back on his knees, and she had followed him, scooting up to face him, tugging on his shirt so that in seconds, it was on the floor, and her hands were on him again.

 

With her lips parted, wet and inviting, Sansa had leaned forward to press little kisses against his skin, running her fingers through the hair on his chest, following the path it made down into the waistband of his shorts. The muscles of his abdomen tightened reflexively as she had moved lower, palming the rigid line of his cock and grasping him softly.

 

Sandor groaned low and deep at the feel of it, pushing his hips up into her hand, and Sansa had answered with a sweet little noise of her own.

 

She had stalled then, looking up at him, eyes wide, working her bottom lip between her teeth, and for the first time since she had kissed him, Sandor had wondered if there wasn’t something more to the tentative nature of her touch.

 

“You’re not frightened, are you?” Sandor asked, needing to know, to be certain that she was willing and feeling suddenly concerned that it might be too much. Until now he had let her set the pace, never going farther than Sansa had invited him to go - he needed to be sure that for whatever blessed buggering reason she had chosen him, brought him here and put her hands on him, that it was because she wanted to.

 

“Are you?”

 

Was he?

 

Sandor had felt like a nervous fool more often than he could count over the last few days - desperate to do right by her, to impress her, draw her in and bask in the warmth of her sweetness, he had been terrified of coming up short.

 

He had met her halfway.

 

“I might have been,” he had said, running his hand up her arm and over her shoulder to rub soothing circles at the base of her neck. “But things are a going a hell’ve a lot better now.”

 

Sansa blushed and with a little breath of laughter she had leaned into his touch.

 

“I don’t know what to do,” she admitted, turning her face to speak against his wrist and trailing her lips over the sensitive skin there.

 

“Nothing more than you want to,” Sandor said hoping to the gods there would be more.

 

“Help me?” she had asked, drawing her hand over him again, up to the fly of his shorts and pulling at the closure until it was open wide.

 

Sandor had kissed her then, long and deep, before laying back along the sheets and pulling her to his side. He had brought his hand to cover hers, sliding them together under the waistband of his smallclothes.

 

He inhaled sharply, breathing through his teeth in a short hiss of pleasure at the contact of skin to skin and Sansa had moaned as he had tightened their grip, beginning a slow stroking motion along his length.

 

“Is that good?” She asked, and Sandor had barely been able to choke out a reply, instead dragging a hand through her hair and drawing her towards him to kiss her mouth, then along her jaw and down her neck. 

 

Her touch had grown bolder, more confident and Sandor had let her work him, pulling his hand free to tug his shorts down over his hips, letting his cock spring free into her hand. Sansa broke the kiss to look down at where she held him, stroking firmly, a hungry curiosity lighting her eyes.

 

He had wondered briefly if she was pleased with him - if she had liked what she had seen when they had met naked on the dock, if like him, she was dying to see it all again. Sandor had tipped his head back, arching into her touch as Sansa had quickened the motion of her hand on his cock.

 

He reached for her then, needing to touch her, to bring her closer, make her feel the true extent to what she was doing to him.  The pressure was building, growing in hot waves - he was close to coming, close to fucking oblivion, it was too good - she was too good.

 

His hand had passed over her chest, her throat, dipping back under her top, feeling the weight of her breasts and her tight nipples between his fingers. Sansa moaned, her grip on his cock tightening briefly as she continued to work him and she had bowed her head, catching his thumb between her lips and sucking it into her mouth.

 

That was it. The feel of her tongue on his skin, her mouth hot and sweet, her unpracticed hand finding the perfect pressure, the perfect pace - he was done, and Sandor had gritted his teeth, growling his release.

 

“Sansa,” he said in a low rasp. “Fuck -  _ Sansa _ .”  

 

“I’m here,” she had whispered softly, leaning over him to kiss first his brow, then his cheek, then his mouth. 

 

Sandor had gone into the bathroom to clean up, and returned a few moments later to drop back onto the bed next to her.

 

He had felt amazing - his body momentarily satisfied, warm and relaxed. As he had laid down next to her, pulling Sansa closer and kissing her slowly, sweetly expressing his gratitude, his awe, it had been one of the most exceptional moments in his miserable fucking life. Not because she had led him to her bed, brought him pleasure and made him come - it wasn’t the touch itself, it was the fact that she had  _ wanted to _ .

 

Sandor had been dying to touch her then, to give back to her and give her everything she had given him, but Sansa stilled his hands on her waist, looking into his eyes.

 

“Just wait,” Sansa had said, laying her hand against his scarred cheek, “can we slow down, I need a moment.”

 

-

 

Brienne had known this call was coming.

 

“What’s the matter,” she asks without even bothering to say hello. She knows, without even looking at the display on her mobile, that it’s Pod.

 

“Would you like that chronologically or alphabetically,” Pod says sounding weary.

 

Brienne tucks the phone under her ear and signals to the crew that she needs a moment to take the call. They’re between takes - after a long afternoon of filming everyone is thankful for the short break and as Brienne wanders off towards the trees, she looks for Jaime.

 

He’s not there - not anywhere she can see anyway, and it occurs to her quite suddenly that it had been at least an hour since she had last seen him.

 

Jaime had done his best to put aside whatever had been troubling him that morning, but Brienne had known better. Whenever he had thought she wasn’t looking, she had found him tense and distressed, completely preoccupied with whatever it was that had happened. Brienne had wanted to talk to him, to comfort him or cheer him up - help in whatever way he needed but there had been no time.

 

Brienne had been frightfully busy, leading the cast and crew through an immense amount of work, and though she’s exhausted, physically and mentally, it’s in a good way. She’s proud of the work they had done.

“Just tell me.”

 

“There was some legal trouble with the girls and CRTV sent their people in. I managed to sort that out but there’s been an incident with Joffrey Baratheon, some kind of prank I think. We couldn’t film the final date, and -”

 

Brienne groans, suddenly regretting answering the call. She should have let it buzz, switched it to silent, put it back in her pocket and pretended to be too busy to notice.

 

“What do you mean ‘and’,” she says, “Pod, how could there possibly be an ‘and’, good gods, the bonfire isn’t until tonight.”

 

“And,” Pod continues, rolling right through her exasperation. “Not only is his manager well pissed about that, she seems to think it’s our fault,  _ and, _ ” he stressed, “apparently I’m too junior to handle anything so she wants to talk to you. I told her you were off the island, and that uh… didn’t go over well.”

 

Of course it hadn’t.

 

Brienne has always felt grateful that in her time working for CRTV she’s had little contact with Cersei, especially after all the things that Jaime had said about her. If anything had happened to her precious son, she would be out for blood.

 

Her heart goes out to Jaime then - thinking of the troubled expression he had worn throughout the day. Had he been trying to deal with this on his own, keeping it from her to make sure nothing interrupted her work?

 

She wants to find him and kiss him, tell what an idiot he’s been, and then thank him and then maybe kiss him some more.

 

“Okay,” Brienne says in her best ‘take charge’ voice, and she can almost see Pod straightening up to receive orders. “I’ll be back first thing in the morning, until then go over the footage and see if there’s anything we can use. I’ll give Cersei a call and get her off your back.”

 

It’s the absolute last thing she wants to do, but Brienne feels guilty for leaving Pod in such chaos. He’s smart, capable and she’s proud of him for doing his best in her absence, but this mess isn’t his to deal with.

 

“And the bonfire?” Pod asks warily, reluctant to even mention the possibility of more trouble.

 

“With the way things are going, keep your fingers crossed the whole island doesn’t go up in flames.”

 

-

 


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brienne receives a gift, Sansa speaks without thinking and Sandor remembers something.

Brienne had called an end to filming late in the evening.

 

She was proud of the work that they had done, and proud of herself that she had made it all happen. It had felt amazing to be doing real work, to be making real television instead of following a pair of naked bottoms through the jungle.

 

She had stayed focused as they had ploughed through the rest of the shoot even though the worry in the back of her mind had only begun to grow.

 

On the next island over, back at the retreat, Brienne had known they would be setting up for the spot with Blackwater Rum, dragging logs out to the beach to set the bonfire, handing out bottles of rum like it was candy.

 

She couldn’t help but worry, and what was more she was worried about Jaime too.

 

Jaime had disappeared sometime during that afternoon and hadn’t come back. He hadn’t even said a word to her, and though there was a small part of her that had been bothered by it, she could forgive him in light of the impending shitstorm.

 

Brienne takes her mobile from her pocket and scrolls through her contacts until she finds Cersei’s name. Her thumb hovers over the button but she just can’t make herself do it. She’s not a coward, however she’s dreading what the woman might have to say - it’s just there are million things she’d rather do. 

 

Like finding a sharpened stick and poking her own eyes out.

 

Brienne shoves her mobile back into her pocket and heads to her tent - the tent, Jaime’s tent.

 

Maybe she should just quit - for real this time, it’s not as if she hadn’t wanted to, even before this wonderful opportunity. She could quit, look for another directing job - any other job, get the hells off this island and give herself a chance at a real life. Even if she never stood behind a camera another day in her life, at least she wouldn’t have to make this bloody call.

 

She unzips the tent and crawls inside only to collapse on top of her sleeping bag, her eyes falling closed. She opens them a second later, looking around only to find that the space is curiously empty. Brienne’s bag sits in a lonely corner by the door - there isn’t a trace of Jaime anywhere.

 

Or maybe not, Brienne shifts as she sees something poking out from the corner of the closed sleeping bag.

 

She sits up and pulls out the scrap of paper, unfolding it to find Jaime’s untidy handwriting.

-

My dearest Wench -

 

(I would have written Brienne, but how else would you have known it was from me?)

 

I should probably start by saying I’m sorry, but this was the biggest bit of paper I could find and if I spend all my time apologizing there won’t be any room for what I really want to say.

 

Not that I’m not sorry - because I am, truly. For leaving, for not saying goodbye and so very sorry that I can’t spend tonight playing sexy sardines in that little tent.

 

What I want to say, is that I’ve left you a little gift inside the sleeping bag and I hope it gets you through the night.

 

You were perfect last night - everything I had been dreaming of (and yes I’ve been dreaming of you for quite a while now). I woke up feeling like the luckiest buggering fool in the world and this day cannot pass soon enough. I need you close to me.

 

You just be your brilliant self and then hurry on back.

 

Your Jaime.

 

PS: Have checked the tent for holes. Sleep tight Wench.

-

Brienne can’t help but smile to herself. It was so like Jaime, absurd, endearing and a little naughty all neatly packaged to cover some boneheaded thing he’d done.

 

She folds the paper neatly, sitting up on her knees to first tuck Jaime’s letter into her bag, and then to unzip the sleeping bag to find out just what he had left her. Neatly folded, about halfway down the bag is a tshirt - the one that Jaime had been wearing that day.

 

Brienne picks it up, shamelessly bringing it to her nose and breathing in his warm spicy scent. If she can’t have him in the flesh, this, she thinks, is a pretty fair compromise.

 

She’s just contemplating whether to put it on - to go to bed with his scent wrapped around her, when she notices another slip of paper. This one must have fallen from the tshirt as she had picked it up.

-

Brienne - I want you to think of me tonight. Get naked for me. Down to nothing. Close your eyes and pretend I was there, close to you, touching you, wanting you, hard for you, inside you. Use your hand and pretend it was mine, touch yourself, make yourself feel good for me, say my name, make yourself come for me, and know I’ll be thinking of you too. - J

-

Seven holy hells and back.

 

Brienne stares at the note, her pulse hammering against her throat, and she brings her free hand up to feel it beating away against the skin. If she burst into flame right now, spontaneously combusted right here in a tent in the middle of the jungle, she wouldn’t even blink.

 

She rolls over onto her side and reads the note again.

 

Brienne pulls her top over her head, and shimmies inside the sleeping bag, kicking off her shorts, her smallclothes, her socks and she gets comfortable, the tshirt near her face so that Jaime’s delicious smell overwhelms her senses.

 

-

 

Sansa can’t get enough of him.

 

He’s the most beautiful man she’s ever seen and though she knows he’d disagree with her, she’s prepared to fight him on that. To her, in her eyes he is beautiful - even when she looks into his face, the left half a twisted mess of desolated skin, she feels nothing but awe, desire - she is captivated.

 

It had been the most incredible feeling to watch him come apart at her touch, the most beautiful thing she’d ever witnessed, his powerful body arching, straining as she had pushed him over the edge. Sansa couldn’t wait to do it again, to explore him, with her hands, her mouth, offer herself in return and find a thousand other ways to make him lose his mind.

 

Sansa knows he wants to touch her, to give back to her - but she needs a moment. She wants more, so much more, but this is still new to her - she needs to take it slowly.

 

Sandor doesn’t seem to mind, and so she settles next to him in the crook of his arm, resting her head on his shoulder and letting her fingers run across his bare chest. He hadn’t bothered to put his shirt back on after he had returned from the bathroom, but his shorts were back in place and firmly buttoned.

 

Sansa is coming to love every opportunity she gets to have him laid out beneath her - to follow the line of his collar bones towards his throat and gently finger the silver dogtags that he wears around his neck, to trace the tattoos inked black into his skin, to be able to explore the hard muscles of his chest and abdomen, to feel the texture of the hair that grows there, coarser and darker the lower her fingers wander.

 

He had been beautiful there too - hot and heavy against her palm, so hard and yet silky smooth under her fingertips, long and thick and gods, she’s blushing just thinking about it.

 

Unconsciously, she rubs her thighs together, the ache inside her crying out for fulfillment. Her body may be ready for him, slippery and open and dying to be touched, but Sansa needs her head to catch up too.

 

She refocuses her attention, running her fingers through his hair, smoothing it away from his face and looking into his eyes.

 

“Can I tell you something?”

 

“Mhhm?” Sandor hums - such a low and relaxed noise, it’s almost as though he’s purring and she loves the fact that he’s grown so comfortable with her.

 

“I like you,” Sansa says, smiling shyly at the way he’s watching her intently. “I’d like it if we could keep seeing each other - you know, when things are back to normal.”

 

“You would?” Was there a note of surprise in his voice?

 

“Yes,” she affirms, and then adds, “if that’s okay with you, I mean.”

 

His brow twitches upward and there’s definite surprise in his tone when he answers.

 

“You’d want that?”

 

“Of course I would.”

 

Sandor stares at her searchingly, as though he’s looking for cracks - waiting for the punchline of a joke.

 

Silly man, she thinks - of course he wouldn’t think she was serious.

 

“Now here’s the part where you tell me I haven’t just made a total fool of myself,” Sansa says, pushing him in the right direction.

 

He laughs then, pulling her close to press his nose against her hair and she feels his breath as he inhales deeply.

 

“Nah,” he says, pulling back to meet her eyes, “but you are blushing an awful lot.”

 

Sansa groans and nudges him in the ribs, hiding behind the coppery curtain of her hair.

 

“Looks good on you though.”

 

“Mmm?”

 

“Yeah, and I tell you what - I’d like to see more of that, and the normal not so tomato-red you, too.”

 

“You’d want that?” Sansa says, repeating his earlier question.

 

“Of course I would.”

 

She grins at him, her heart full with happiness and her belly fluttering with excitement. She leans in to kiss him and Sandor responds fervently, tasting her, sucking at her bottom lip and sliding his tongue against hers.

 

Sansa pulls away a few minutes later feeling a little lightheaded.

 

“Come with me to Robb’s wedding.”

 

Sandor looks at her, brows knit.

 

“Who’s Robb?”

 

“My brother,” she says, “my older brother. It’s in six weeks, at Winterfell.”

 

She feels Sandor tense underneath her, feels the way he pulls back to look her full in the face. The liquid warmth that had turned his eyes black a moment ago is suddenly gone, replaced with something dark and smokey.

 

Sansa feels her heart sink, immediately regretting that she had spoken without thinking, worried that she’s overstepped some kind of boundary.

 

“No,” he says flatly, “no way.”

 

“Why not?” she asks before she can help herself, and she sits up to look at him - needing to understand, needing to make it okay again.

 

Sandor laughs then, not in that deep comfortable way he had a moment ago, but harshly, scornfully.

 

“You honestly think that’s a good idea?”

 

If he didn’t want to go, that was one thing, she would respect that, but he’s acting as though her invitation was some kind of careless insult.

 

“Yes,” Sansa says, “I do.”

 

“Then you’re full of shit.”

 

“No,” Sansa says, she’s not going to back down - she knows what he’s trying to do, and she’s not going to let him scare her away before she figures out what’s really going on. “I’m not. I meant what I said and I thought you did too. I don’t want this to end when we leave here - I want more.”

 

“That’s different,” Sandor says stubbornly.

 

“Why? Was I supposed to keep you some kind of secret? Act like I was too ashamed to be seen with you? No way.”

 

Sandor sits up to face her, and when his eyes meet hers again, he looks just like he had that first night on the beach. Dark, wild terrifying.

 

“You really think they’re going to want to see you with a guy like me? That creep of an uncle of yours was livid at the thought of me touching you and he’s the scum of the fucking earth. You think they’re going to want me around? At some fancy wedding? Standing behind you in all those sweet family photos looking like fucking frankenstein.”

 

Sansa is stunned, but her shocked silence only lasts a beat.

 

So that’s what his problem was? He was worried they wouldn’t think he was good enough for her? Instead of giving it a chance, Sandor had assumed the worst and now he was trying to scare her away to cover what - his own insecurity? Let him try, Sansa thinks.

 

She doesn’t know whether or not to be angry with him, whether she wants to shake him out of it or take his face in her hands and kiss him until he knows without a doubt that she’s not messing around.

 

“First of all, how could you know that?” Sansa demands. “You can’t - you can’t know what they’ll think unless you give them a chance.”

 

“Just like they’ll give me on? Not gonna happen - people make their minds up about me before I even open my mouth.”

 

“Not everyone,” she argues and then adds more softly. “I didn’t.”

 

Sandor huffs at her disbelievingly.

 

“The ones that matter won’t either. They’re gonna want you around because they love me, and if you make me happy then that’ll be good enough for them.” Sansa says before looking him straight in the eye and adding, “and there is nothing wrong with the way you look.”

 

Sansa thinks for a second she’s gotten through to him, but then Sandor is on his feet, glaring down at her.

 

“You think I’m just a little rough around the edges? That you can polish me up and they’ll let it pass - that they won’t see me for what I really am? Do I need to spell it out for you? Sansa, I beat my own brother to death, for fucks sake. Your family, they might be understanding people, but nobody wants their little girl to bring home a killer.”

 

“No you didn’t.”

 

“Excuse me?” Sandor says incredulously.

 

“No,” she repeats, “you didn’t.”

 

-

 

Sandor is about to lose it.

 

What in the seven buggering hells had just happened? A second ago everything had been perfect - more than perfect. Sansa had been touching him, smiling at him, telling him she wanted more, to see him again once they were both off this island and then…

 

The wedding was a terrible fucking idea. There was no way her family would accept him, not after what he had done - whatever Sansa seemed to think, they would not want a man like him anywhere near her.

 

And now what? Was she so desperate for everything to come out sunshine and roses that she’d forgotten the inconvenient little fact that he’d beaten Gregor to a bloody pulp and could at any second, if the Lannisters were feeling particularly uncharitable, be hanged for murder?

 

He sits up straight on the bed, staring at her, the corner of his mouth pulled back in a snarl.

 

“And just what the fuck do you mean by that?”

 

“You’ve got to stop blaming yourself,” she says, leaning towards him and sliding her hand over his, her blue eyes round and bright. “Margaery told me what happened, she told me about Loras, how you saved him, how you stopped your brother from hurting him, about how you fought, and the truck and how you thought it was all your fault.”

 

Hold the fuck up.

 

What did she say?

 

Sandor blinks, the memory of that awful day flashing before his eyes.

 

It had been just after his father had died - the army had given him a leave of absence to come home and settle the family affairs, and he had met with the solicitor to read through his father’s will. He hadn’t expected Gregor to show up, hadn’t seen his brother once in the eight years since enlisting and it had been eight years too soon.

 

His brother had been furious they had read the will without him, even though, Sandor had remembered bitterly, most of his father’s assets had been left in Gregor’s favour. Everything except for the house, that had gone to Sandor, and it had been the one thing he hadn’t wanted. There was a hundred horrific memories tied to that place, and since the day he had turned eighteen he had been out the door, never to set foot in it again.

 

Gregor had threatened the shrew of a man who’d read the will, demanding that since he was the eldest, he was entitled to the land. The solicitor had practically pissed himself in fear, but he had repeated over and over that nothing could be done until Gregor had left him in a crumpled heap on the polished tile.

 

His brother had left then, storming out of the office and out to his car. 

 

Sandor hadn’t seen it happen, but he had heard it, from inside the office a great crunching, grinding smash - the sound of two vehicles colliding, and by the time he had made it outside, Gregor was already pulling the other driver from his car.

 

Sandor hadn’t thought twice about it, he had gone straight for the fight - not that it was much of a fight. The other driver, a skinny teenage boy, had looked like a doll in Gregor’s massive fists, and his face - Sandor remembered, he had seen that look before, the boy was scared shitless, terrified for his life.

 

From then on though, things had begun to get a little hazy - and how could they not after the first few blows to the head. Sandor had held his own, relying on years of military training and hands on experience, but his brother, driven by that hideous unquenchable fury and outweighing him significantly was more than a match.

 

Sandor could remember how it started, and he could remember afterward, waiting hours alone in the police station until Tyrion Lannister had arrived with a deal that would’ve made the devil proud, but how had the fight ended?

 

Sandor focuses his mind, desperate to remember - a truck, a fucking yellow truck, Martell’s truck and... 

 

Gregor stumbling, falling backwards over the concrete divide into oncoming traffic - Gregor flat on his back, blood dripping from the grill, chips of skull and blobs of brain scattered on the pavement - Gregor dead.

 

“What the fuck,” Sandor says in barely more than a whisper, and Sansa reaches for him again. He shakes her off, grabbing his tshirt from the floor and putting it on.

 

He needs space, he needs air, he needs to breathe.

 

It has all been a fucking lie - the last four years of his life, nothing but a miserable fucking lie. He’d followed the Lannisters like a faithful hound, and every time he had stepped a toe over the line, they had threatened him to turn him in.

 

Sandor had believed himself guilty of murder, and they had let him. They had held it over his head, let him believe it and all for what? So that he could do their dirty work? So that he could beat up little punks for Joffrey’s amusement? Hunt down the fools who owed Tywin money? Rough up Cersei’s boyfriends so they wouldn’t overstay their welcome?

 

“Sandor.”

Sansa’s voice sounds small and far away and though she’s right next to him, he can barely hear her for the pounding of blood in his ears. 

 

He doesn’t look back at her as he turns to leave.

 

-

 

Sansa isn’t sure what just happened.

 

Everything had been fine - more than fine and then she had asked about the wedding, and one thing had lead to another, and Sandor had left, his face hard and blank and though she had called to him, tried to get through to him it was as though he had become a stone wall, as though he was looking right through her.

 

He had seemed so shocked when she had mentioned the truck…

 

Sansa had thought he had been stubbornly blaming himself, determined to see himself responsible as if it somehow enhanced the image of the fearsome beast he used to drive the world away, but what if… What if he hadn’t know?

 

She feels her heart breaking for him. That was why he had spent so long with the Lannisters? Because they had let him believe he was guilty all this time?

 

Sansa had been disgusted with Joffrey, disturbed at the heavy handed way his family had tried to force her obedience, but now… she was horrified. It was unforgivable what they had done.

 

Sansa gets up and crosses to the patio doors, opening them wide. She wanders out onto the deck, staring into the darkening night sky. She can see the flicker of light from here, the towering orange glow of a bonfire down on the beach and across the water - Sansa gasps in surprise as a blinding crackling starburst lights the sky an electric acid green.

 

The blast is followed by another and another and she can hear the cheers and yells of the partygoers as they watch the fireworks erupt in the sky. Any other night she would have found the scene beautiful, but tonight… 

 

Sansa thinks of going to look for him.

 

She’s worried for Sandor, and something tells her, with the bonfire on the beach and the way he had stormed from the cabin, tonight’s trouble is far from over.

 

“Knock, knock,” Margaery says pushing open the bedroom door, and Sansa turns to face her, giving her friend a weak smile.

 

“Hey,” Sansa says before turning back to the beach. “What’s going on down there?”

 

“Big promotion for Blackwater Rum,” Margaery says, coming to join her on the deck. The girls lean against the railing watching the fireworks burst bright over the water. “They had us all down there at sunset - where were you by the way?”

 

“I had a date,” Sansa sighs.

 

“This one end any better?”

 

“No, I guess you could say it didn’t…” Sansa says slumping against the railing. She turns to Margaery, “what are you doing back so soon?”

 

“Things are getting a little out of hand down there,” Margaery tuts. “I don’t know who is supposed to be supervising the whole thing, but some of the boys made themselves torches, and of course with all that rum around it was no time before they thought it was a good idea to see how far they could spit mouthfuls of fire.”

 

Sansa’s belly tightens with worry - gotten out of hand indeed. One thing is for sure, if the party is too much for Margaery then it must be complete and total chaos.

 

She thinks of Sandor then, knowing how he feels about fire and dreading the thought of him coming face to face with the antics on the beach.

 

All Sansa can hope is that wherever he is, Sandor is okay.

 

-

 

Sandor is definitely not okay.

 

He had left Sansa’s cabin, shoving on his boots and wrenching open the door only to trip over something on the doorstep. Sitting right at his feet was a brand new bottle of Green Label Blackwater Rum.

 

He had picked up the bottle without a thought, and before he had made it to the jungle path back towards the main hall, he had the bottle open.

 

By the time he had reached his own cabin, he had drunk nearly a third of the rum, and Sandor had begun to feel the buzz. There was nothing good about the feeling, but it had taken the edge off.

 

The lights in the cabin were on, and he had pushed open the door, surveying the room before taking another long pull of the drink.

 

“Tyrion,” Sandor had barked. “Where is he?”

 

Joffrey’s smug little face had glared back at him, his wormy mouth curling into a satisfied smile.

 

“Not here, dog.”

 

“Where is he?” Sandor had repeated, doing his very best to ignore the urge to knock Joffrey on his arse.

 

The boy shrugged, leaning casually against the doorframe of his bedroom and crossed his arms.

 

“Did you need to speak to him?”

 

Sandor gritted his teeth and snarled.

 

“Quit fucking around, where the bloody hells is Tyrion?”

 

Joffrey smiled at him again lazily, and Sandor had gripped the bottle tight in his fist to keep from reaching for him.

 

“I think,” he had said looking first at the bottle in Sandor’s hand and then into his face. “My uncle has gone down to the beach. If you need him, you can find him there. Run along, dog.”

 

There was a thousand things Sandor could have said to him, a thousand ways he could have rubbed that self-satisfied little smirk from the boy’s face, but he had turned tail and left the cabin the way he had come, rum still in hand and taken the path directly to the beach.

 

-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for sticking with me, darlings! i appreciate each and every comment so much - and i love that some of you have noticed the little details i've squeezed in here and there. more to come soon <3
> 
> anyone think they know what's gonna happen next?


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sandor finds an unexpected ally and Sansa gets a night time visitor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> unbetaed and a little smutty - hope you enjoy and thanks for sticking with this story!

Sandor had stopped short at the sight of the bonfire.

A massive fucking fire right there in the middle of the beach - and what was more, some of the boys had lit torches and they were swooping them over their heads, laughing and shouting into the dark night.

Every few moments, the red-orange flare of the bonfire would glow green as an explosion of fireworks erupted over the crashing waves, and as the sky crackled and sparkled, the partygoers on the beach cheered.

He had stared out at the scene, his feet leaden and heavy where the sand broke the trailhead - he couldn’t move. He scanned the beach for Tyrion, hoping he would be easy to spot in the crowd, but Sandor’s eye had begun to haze, the light of the torches, the scorching bonfire leaving streaky trails across his vision.

He had felt the effects of the rum rather suddenly, what had been a welcome buzz moments ago was now making his head spin, and that coupled with the fire, the complete overload on his senses, and the thundering echo of thought and memory playing through his mind - he had felt like he was losing his mind.

Sandor dropped the half-drunk bottle of rum and it fell to the sand with a dull thud.

He had stared out at the people on the beach - some dancing to the loud thumping music, a pair or two wrapped around each other glued together mouth to mouth and even a girl at the water's edge, vomiting into the sand as her friend held back her hair.

Most of the crowd was surrounding the bonfire and he had tried to search for Tyrion’s small body somewhere amongst the mess of firelight and movement.

If Tyrion was even here at all, Sandor had thought - remembering the way that Joffrey had smirked so smugly at him as he had sent him on his way. Of course the little shit had set this up.

Desperate to give in to his body’s desire to flee, he had given the beach one last glance - and there, down by the water, just on the other side of the crackling spitting bonfire, he had spotted Tyrion’s distinctive frame.

Sandor had thought of shouting for him, of waiting on the sand until the man returned to the path, however long that might take, anything to avoid going nearer the bonfire - but he had known he couldn’t wait.

He had to know the truth, even if he had to walk through a fucking nightmare to get it.

By some buggering miracle, he had managed to make his feet move, taking the widest path possible around the bonfire and down to where Tyrion Lannister stood.

-

“Why the fuck didn’t anyone tell me about Martell,” Sandor spits, without bothering to say hello.

Tyrion is standing with a pretty dark haired girl, and if Sandor had been in a better mind to pay attention, he would have noticed the way she was blushing and giggling at whatever they had been talking about before he’d arrived.

Tyrion looks up at Sandor impassively, as though he’s completed unbothered by the fact that Sandor has become nearly unhinged.

“Ah, Sandor,” he says with something almost like amusement in his voice. “Something I can do for you?”

“Buggering right you can -” Sandor begins, but Tyrion raises a hand to stop him.

“A moment, if you wouldn’t mind?”

Sandor grits his teeth, growling in frustration and turning to face the sea he tries to focus on the tumbling black water - tries to do anything to ignore the sound of party and crackling heat of the fire mere metres behind them.

The girl at Tyrion’s side leans down so that he can whisper in her ear, and she giggles again before moving back up the beach, waving back at Tyrion with a wide smile.

“Well,” Tyrion’s cool voice says, cutting clearly through the sound of the party. “You’re the last person I expected to see out here tonight.”

“Fuck off - I’m here to talk about Martell, tell me what you know,” Sandor demands, glaring down at the other man.

“It seems that you know a great deal more than you did a few hours ago…“ Tyrion sighs, “so why don’t you tell me what you know.”

Sandor pulls his hands into fists, tightly at his sides, anything to contain the raging swell of frustration. His nostrils flare as he pulls in a deep breath, feeling a sting of smoke from the fire and it does nothing to help the way he wants to crawl out of his own skin.

“I know that there was a truck - I know it wasn’t me, I know I didn’t kill Gregor, and I know that you and your buggering family have been feeding me bullshit this whole time.”

To his credit, Tyrion looks somewhat contrite and he frowns, staring down at the sand.

“Ah, yes...”

“What I want to know is how - and then I want out, tonight, I’m done with the fucking lot of you,” Sandor has to grind his teeth to keep his voice even and he feels his nails dig sharply into his palms.

“If you must know… Gregor had been ours for years, doing essentially what you do now, though with considerably more job satisfaction, I imagine and when my father found out the circumstances in which your brother had gone and gotten himself killed, the option to acquire a replacement seemed ready-made.”

“For fuck’s sake.”

This is news to Sandor - he hadn’t known or cared much about what Gregor had been up to up until their father had died, and it’s a sick surprise to find that he had inadvertently followed in his brother’s path.

“It was easy as anything to buy off the cops, let them rattle your chain a bit, have them threaten you with this and that until there would be no reason for you to refuse what we had to offer,” Tyrion continues, his face hard and serious. “And all it took was a little threat here and there to keep you in line.”

Bullshit, years of fucking lies and bullshit.

He was a living breathing human and they had treated him like nothing more than an attack dog, stupid and unfeeling.

“So the murder charge?” Sandor asks, staring at Tyrion intently.

“Completely fabricated.”

“My discharge from the army?”

“Honorable. The papers you were given were falsified. I have the originals in my safe.”

“Fucking the fucking gods and every last damn Lannister to hell.”

Sandor grasps his face in his hands, dragging his hair away from his face and inhales deeply.

The air stinks of smoke and though he’s staring out at the sea, there’s nothing calm hidden in the waves, just the reflection of burst after burst of acid green fireworks on the black surface.

“I admit it wasn’t the most forthright of negotiations, but that’s just how my family rolls.”

“I want out - I want those papers, and I want out.”

Tyrion sighs, and tips his head to the side.

“I think you’re forgetting something.”

“What?” Sandor spits, now he knew - now he really knew, nothing would stop him, whatever the damned imp had to say.

“You might not be guilty of murder, but that doesn’t mean you’ve lived a blameless life for the last four years, you can’t just walk away from this free and clear after what you’ve done.”

Sandor throws back his shoulders, glaring down at the other man threateningly.

“What I’ve done - what I’ve done?” He says, completely incensed. “I wouldn’t have done a damn one of those things if it weren’t on the orders of your family.”

“I never said you would, but it doesn’t stop it from being the truth.”

“Fuck,” Sandor growls, slamming a fist hard into his thigh.

A second ago he had been ready for anything, ready to go down fighting and yet now he felt as though he had been buried alive, beating hard against the inside of a box and scratching away until his fingers bled.

Another burst of green comes and there’s a swooping cheer from the people on the beach.

Sandor tries to push it all away, the sound, the smell - every last detail that’s making him lose his mind.

He shuts his eyes, and completely without meaning to, her face rises into his vision. Sansa, her blue eyes wide, perfect pink lips parted as she’d said those words…

You’ve got to stop blaming yourself.

He wasn’t going to give in.

They stand a moment in seething silence until he looks back at Tyrion, almost pleadingly.

“What do I do?”

“You know there’s no good answer to that question, don’t you?”

Of course he does and it makes him sick.

“But,” Tyrion goes on, looking up at Sandor with something like a conspiratorial glint in his eye. “I seem to have had a night of revelations myself, and I think we might be able to help each other out.”

“What could I possibly do for you?”

“I think we can both agree you’ve got a reasonable amount of dirt on my family.”

Oh he had dirt on the Lannisters - heaps and heaps of it.

“See that girl over there,” Tyrion says motioning to the pretty dark haired woman he’d been talking to when Sandor had arrived. “That’s Tysha. We knew each other when we were kids.”

“So, what of it?” Sandor says - he doesn’t have the patiences for this.

Tyrion rolls his eyes at him, scoffing.

“So - my father disapproved of our relationship and to make a long story short. She whole lot richer and a hell’ve a lot less dead than I thought.”

“What the fuck is wrong with your family?” Sandor says in complete disgust.

“I ask myself that often,” Tyrion laughs. “But the point is - the not so secret hatred I’ve held for my father has reached something of a tipping point tonight. And with my professional expertise and your sudden willingness to - what did you say? Damn every last Lannister to hell, I think we could help each other out. Provided I’m exempt from the damning, of course.”

Sandor shifts his feet in the sand, thinking over the offer. There was no reason to trust the imp, but as he thinks of Sansa again, the last taste of her lips, the look of her so sweetly laid out underneath him, that shy little way she’d asked to see him again, to take what they’d found her on this buggering island and build something he could never have dreamed of, he finds himself nodding. 

An enemy of my enemy, he thinks before sifting his hands through his hair and looking down at the other man.

“Okay, I’m listening.”

-

Sansa had joined Margaery out on the deck to watch the fireworks.

The girls had cracked open a couple beers and stared up into the night sky, enjoying the beautiful display of crackling emerald light. They had talked, and laughed and though Sansa had enjoyed herself - she had still found it hard to truly focus on her friend.

She was worried about Sandor.

When her beer was empty, Sansa had decided to go to bed. She doubted she would be able to get much sleep, but at least there she wouldn’t have to worry about being rude.

And, she had thought, saying goodnight to Margaery, maybe she could do a little thinking about what her next move was going to be.

The more she thought about going to home to Winterfell, the more she knew it was the right thing to do, and now that Arya was moving out, there was nothing keeping her in the city.

She had been sure then - that soon after returning to King’s Landing, she would speak to her father, and begin the process of transferring schools, moving out of her apartment and coming home.

Sansa had showered and changed into her pajamas - a soft cotton nightdress, with thin straps and a scalloped hem that fell just under her bottom, and snuggled back against the pillows on her bed. She had left the doors to the deck open, and though the far off noise of the party on the beach filtered through her room, the open door also brought a cooling sea breeze that felt wonderfully relaxing in her quiet room.

She had picked up her book - the one she had brought to read on the plane, and opened it to where she had left off. The soft blue feather Sandor had given her that afternoon fell from the open pages, fluttering into her lap and she had picked it up, fingering it gently.

Please let him be okay, she had thought.

\- 

A little while later, after she had begun to wonder just how long the party could possibly keep up - Sansa had set her book aside and gotten up to close the doors to the deck. 

She had heard a group of boys run down the adjacent pathway, the firelight from their torches bouncing orange and gold on the surrounding trees. She had thought they we headed to the beach, or perhaps back to their own cabins, and so her heart had leapt into her throat when she heard the noise of heavy footfalls on the deck outside.

They were drunk and rowdy, and as they circled the surrounding deck, they had pressed their faces against the glass, banging on the windows, and rattling at the doors.

It had lasted only a moment before the boys moved off, presumably to give another cabin the same treatment, and Sansa had sat in silence for a moment to catch her breath.

-

She’s a few hundred pages deep into her book when she hears the door rattle again. 

This time, there is no flickering firelight, no sound of heavy footsteps or loud whooping voices. It’s just a rattle at the doorknob, and Sansa holds herself still, peering out into the dark night wondering if she’d remembered to lock the door.

There’s another jiggle of the door, but with it comes a tap at the glass, and she can see as he brings his face close to the window, it’s Sandor.

She scrambles off the bed and unlocks the door, throwing it open and standing back to make room for him to enter.

He does - surging on her, taking her waist in his massive hands and leading her backwards towards the bed.

“Sandor,” she says, gripping his shoulders and pulling back to search his face. “Are you okay? Is everything alright?”

There’s something a little wild about him. He smells of rum and - to her surprise, of smoke too, and her heart tumbles in her chest, thinking of him down on the beach.

What had happened to him? Where had he gone? 

“No,” he says pressing into her until she hits the mattress and falls backwards. “But it will be.”

Sansa doesn’t know what he means - can only imagine this has to do with the reason he had left her so abruptly and she lets go of his arm to gently brush the hair away from his face.

“It will,” she says and smiles at him. “Of course it will.”

Sandor shuts his eyes, laying his forehead against hers and he makes a noise, somewhere between a growl and a groan.

Sansa can tell he’s not quite sober, but he's not quite drunk either, and she imagines he’s more overwhelmed than anything, running on pure adrenaline.

When he kisses her, hot and hungry, she can taste the rum and his mouth moves like he’s breathing from her, like she’s the blessed bringer of life, like she’s everything.

It’s somehow more than it has been before - this kiss is frantic almost, needy and desperate, and though she gives into him, matching the pull of his lips, the sweep of his tongue against hers, Sansa lays a hand on his face, stroking gently, calmly. 

“It’s okay, I’m not going anywhere,” she says breathlessly. “You have me.”

“Let that be the truth,” he groans, dropping his mouth to her neck to suck at the skin beneath her ear. “Let it be the fucking truth.”

Sansa answers him with a breath and she bites her lip. It feels incredible, his uneven mouth on her throat, nipping, kissing, working his way down to her collar bones and pushing aside the straps of her nightdress.

He’s bent over her, one hand pressed into the mattress, the other on her waist, his fingers digging in, and as he kisses her, she can’t help but arch into him, feel the hard muscle of his torso crush her into the bed.

“You have me,” Sansa assures him as she parts her legs, letting one of his knees slip up between them. With a little shift of her hips, her centre connects with his thigh and she’s suddenly aware of just how wet she is - just how much her body is begging for him.

She rolls her hips, bearing down on him, and as her nightdress slips up, exposing her smallclothes, pale blue and lacy, Sandor looks down between them.

The noise he makes is almost inhuman, there’s such a ferocity to the growl that by any rights it should frighten her, but it doesn’t not one bit.

Sandor presses against her, taking her mouth again as he holds himself hard and steady, the hand on her waist encouraging each roll of her hips and oh does that ever feel good.

But a second later he’s lifting her as easily as anything until she’s at the top of the bed, her head on the pillows.

He barely stops to breathe before he’s kissing her again and her hands fall on his shoulders, gripping tightly, digging her nails into his tshirt, clawing at it as though to tell him she wants it gone.

“I want you,” she almost whines when he pulls back onto his knees to tug away his shirt and throw it aside. 

And she does - Sansa does want him, even if she’s not quite sure what that means.

With the way things are going, she knows this could be it - this could be the moment, Sansa thinks, she could give herself to him, this fearsome broken man, scarred and yet still beautiful, she could give herself to him and she wouldn’t regret a thing.

Sandor seems to be taking in the sight of her, his grey eyes wild and stormy and she watches the way his chest rises and falls with each breath as she reaches up to undo the short row of buttons on her nightdress.

It’s almost enough to have him look at her like this, to have him watch her as though he’s never seen anything more beautiful, anything more mesmerizing.

She feels a little swoop in her belly, a little gush between her legs as she locks eyes with him, plucking at the buttons until a little v of pale skin appears between her breasts and she slips her arms free of the straps, sliding the top of her nightdress down to her waist.

Her nipples are small and hard and pink and she can't help but run a hand over her breasts touching them gently with her fingertips before she’s pulling at his hand and leading him to do the same.

“By the gods, you’re perfect,” Sandor rasps, his large rough hand grasping at her gently, sliding over her soft pale skin.

His touch becomes firmer, more insistent and then he’s lowering his mouth to her, sliding down the bed to lay kisses across her chest, between her breasts - to lick at her nipples and draw them into his mouth.

Sansa arches again and moans, high and sweet.

“Yes,” he grows against her skin, “I want to make you sing, little bird.”

“Please,” Sansa pants, “please.”

Sandor moves down a little further, pushing up her nightdress so that the whole of it is bunched around her waist and he settles his hands on her hips, rubbing his thumbs against the jutting bones.

He leaves a hot open mouthed kiss here and there - on her navel, her hipbones, the soft rise of her belly - before his mouth settles over the lace covering her cunt.

Sansa bucks up, feeling his breath hot through the fabric. She gasps, her hands scrabbling for something - anything to connect with, and her fingers slide into his hair.

“Let me,” he says, his voice low and hoarse, and she looks into his eyes, dragging away the long black strands of his hair and stroking his face. There’s still something wild about him but he’s looking at her intensely, openly, asking her to tell him he can go on.

She nods at him, with a little whimper, and she bites her lip as she feels him press his mouth down onto her centre.

The second she seems to get used to the feeling - she’s never had anyone this close before, never this intimate, Sandor is moving again, kissing the insides of her thighs, trailing across her belly and up to her breasts with his hands.

“Please,” she says, even though she’s not quite sure what it is she needs.

He groans in response, his fingers hooking into the waistband of her smallclothes. Sansa lifts her hips, hands falling to the bed to grasp at the sheets and she bites her lip as he pulls away the lace.

How had she waited so long? She wonders, tingling at the feel of his breath on her exposed flesh, his mouth settling open and wet on her cunt - it’s beyond anything she’s ever felt, how had she never wanted this before? 

Because it was meant to be him, she thinks, looking down at his face between her legs, his long dark hair across her thighs, because she’s never wanted anyone like this.

Sandor meets her eyes, just a flicker of grey and she knows he’s seen her looking.

“You’re fucking beautiful,” he says, his mouth moving on her, voice deep and rumbling. He’s kissing her there, licking over and over at that spot that makes her arch and gasp, and when he brings his hand to meet his mouth, Sansa parts her legs just a little more, opening for him and inviting him farther.

Sandor seems to take her meaning, because then he’s circling her entrance, slipping in her juices and pushing into her.

“Oh - oh,” Sansa says breathlessly, as she feels one of his long thick fingers fill her, it pushes in and out and then there’s another, stretching her, steadily driving into her.

He works her with his mouth, his tongue, his hand, sending sparks of light, bolts of pleasure sailing through her until her heart is pounding in her ears, until she’s clawing at the sheets, gasping and whimpering, until she feels like she's going to break. 

And then she does, and she’s flying and falling and exploding into a thousand incandescent pieces and it’s everything, everything.

-

Sandor hadn’t meant to do it.

He hadn’t meant to come crashing into her room, throw her down, undress her and put his mouth on her like that.

It’s the rum, he thinks, it has to have been, he’s not sure he would’ve dared otherwise.

Not that he hadn’t been thinking of it, been wondering just how good she would taste if ever he were lucky enough.

But Sansa had been willing, she’d opened herself to him, invited him to see and touch and taste her and, the seven buggering help him, he’d made her come.

She’d said please - she’d whined and begged him, she’d reached for his hands, put them on her perfect little tits, opened her legs and let him drink from her.

She’s too good for him, and he knows it, feels it down to his bones, knows it in every corner of his worthless mind - she’s more than he could have ever wanted and then some and for some inconceivable fucking reason, she’s his.

For now anyway.

Sandor crawls up the bed, laying gentle kisses into her soft sweet skin. First on her thighs, then her belly, her breasts, her neck and when he reaches her mouth Sansa makes another of those sweet breathy moans and kisses him right back.

“Oh gods,” she says, dragging her hands through his hair and pressing her forehead against his. “That was, oh - no one’s ever done that to me before.”

Sandor pulls back, looks at her in surprise.

“Actually,” Sansa says looking suddenly shy. She reaches down to adjust her nightdress, tugging down over her naked hips and up over her chest. “I haven’t ever…”

“You mean, you’re a maid?” He asks, his voice coming out so damn low it sounds like far off thunder.

“Yeah,” she says ducking her head and rolling to her side, away from him.

But instead of closing in on herself, Sansa tugs at his arm, pulls him up behind her, fitting her back against his front and settling her bottom into his lap. 

She makes a soft little noise, a gasp of breath and he knows she can feel him, hot and hard and pressing right into her arse.

Sandor barely moves - no more than to wrap his arm around her and bury his face in her hair - he’d never expected any of this, never, and sure his cock is hard, sure he wants to fuck her more than damn near anything but he won’t push her, not any more than he already has tonight.

“I’ll tell you something, little bird,” he says as she laces her fingers with his, drawing their hands close to her chest. “I might have fucked a fair few times, but I’ve never done that either.”

He doesn’t know why he’s telling her this, only that it seems right. Not that she’d want to know the details of his miserable experience with women, but it makes them even, he thinks.

Sansa turns her head just a little, but close as they are she can’t quite meet his eye.

“But you were so good,” she says and he laughs.

“If you say so.”

“Oh gods you were,” she affirms, gripping his hand tighter and pressing her lips to his knuckles, and then she adds so very quietly “I’ve never come so hard.”

Sandor groans, grinding his teeth against the urge to drive his hips into hers - he wants to flip her onto her belly, push up her nightdress, lift her bottom into the air and kiss her sweet cunt all over again.

He wants to hold her there - until she’s squirming and pleading, begging for him to fill her, and then, when she says yes, and please and now, he wants to give it to her, replace his tongue and his fingers with his cock, and fuck her and fuck her until they both shatter, until there isn’t anything in the world but Sansa and the fucking bliss that is to be hers. 

Sandor doesn’t move at all this time, he barely takes a breath until he can trust himself not act on what he so desperately desires and though he clears his throat, when he speaks, his voice is harsh and gravelly.

“Then you’ll be fine,” he says, “your first time, you’ll be fine too.”

“That’s different - you gave me a… kiss,” she says and he can’t help a snort of laughter. 

“Well you did,” Sansa argues.

She’s quiet a moment and then goes on.

“I want to, you know,” she says, her voice soft and shy again. “I want to with you.”

Whatever he had done to settle the demands his body was making, to ignore the softness of her arse against his cock, to try and forget the fact that underneath the hem of her nightdress, her cunt was still swollen and wet and oh so ready for him - this did not help in the slightest.

“I think we could be good together - I think you’d feel so good, and you’d be gentle with me, I know it, I wouldn’t have to be afraid. There’s so much of you - I know, but I could take it, and I -”

“Sansa,” he growls, and he feels like he’s warning her, like it’s his turn to beg, only now he isn’t asking for more, he’s asking her to stop.

She’s killing him, absolutely killing him and he can’t help himself when he nuzzles her hair away from her neck and lays his mouth on her throat.

“Tell me yes, tell me now - or stop.”

“I’m sorry,” Sansa says, even as she tilts her head giving him more room to bite and suck at her skin. “I want to, but it’s too soon.”

Sandor moves to pull away then, but she catches him, holding him close only this time, she’s careful not to rub her bottom into his lap.

“Don’t go,” she says, “not unless you want to. I mean, you don’t have to stay, but I’d like you to, if you want.”

He’s not in it for the sex - he never has been, and though his whole body is demanding a whole slew of things which it cannot have, leaving her would be infinitely worse.

Whatever kind of heaven it would be to fuck her, that’s only part of it and if she wants him here, to lie close with her, to share her bed, to listen to her talk and laugh, to breath in the scent of her all around him - that’s more than good enough.

“I’ll stay,” Sandor says - of course he bloody will.

“I’m sorry about, you know…”

“Don’t - you don’t need to be,” he tells her. “You were perfect.”

Sansa shakes her head, “but I didn’t do anything.”

He laughs at this, low and deep, and with his arm wrapped around her, he holds her tightly against his chest.

“You sang for me, and that’s more than enough.”

-


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa wakes alone, Brienne gets fired and Sandor waits.

Sansa wakes alone.

 

It’s quiet and cool - early morning still, and she stretches and rolls in the bed, reaching out into the empty space where Sandor had been.

 

_ Had _ been - he’s gone. Just gone.

 

Her heart seems to sink into her chest, a sad swoop of disappointment, because she knows - she knows he isn’t just in the shower or out to pick up coffee.

 

In the empty space next to her, where the sheets still smell just enough like him to reassure her she hadn’t dreamt up their night together like some lovesick madwoman, there’s a glint of silver in the clear morning light.

 

His dogtags.

 

Right there on the pillow next to her, placed so carefully - like a gift, waiting for her to find when she awoke.

 

Sansa sits up in bed and picks them up, sliding the chain through her fingers and running her thumb over the embossed metal.

 

His name is right there, stamped in all caps, underneath, a service number, and then a blood type, a city, and ‘no preference’.

 

There’s a weight to this - she knows, it’s not just a gift, but a parting gift, a goodbye.

 

And it hurts.

 

Sansa has never been dumped before. Until now she’s always been the one doing the dumping, and though that’s not exactly what this is, she still feels the rejection acutely.

 

Sandor was saying no - no to letting this thing between them grow, no to giving them a chance when they were back at home and back into their normal lives.

 

Had he ever really believed her when she told him how much she wanted him?

 

No, maybe he really hadn’t, she thinks to herself, swinging her legs out of bed and heading for the bathroom, taking the dogtags with her.

 

She flips the tap on the shower, letting the water warm, and stares at herself in the mirror for a moment. The buttons on her nightdress are still open, her hair is wild and messy and her throat, usually pale and unblemished, bears the faintest hint of pink.

 

Sansa can’t help but feel beautiful, knowing that it was Sandor - his mouth, his touch that had left her like this and yet it makes her sad all the same.

 

It was probably for some stupid would-be noble reason, she thinks, trying to curb the bitterness of her thoughts even as she slings the chain around her neck, Sandor’s dogtags coming to rest cool between her breasts.

 

Sansa shrugs off her nightdress and drops it to the floor, stepping into the shower.

 

He was letting her go, not because he really wanted to, she’s sure of it - but because he just didn’t think he was good enough.

 

Now if only she could tell him how very wrong he was.

 

-

 

Brienne has been back at the retreat for three full hours and she still hasn’t seen Jaime.

 

She hasn’t even had a single bloody word from him.

 

Not that she hasn’t been busy in her own right. It’s been hard to see much of anything through the massive pile of shit she’s come back to.

 

Brienne had caught the early ferry and Pod had met her with the rundown - the mess of filming over the last few days and the inevitable chaos that was the Blackwater bonfire on the beach.

 

And maybe she should care, maybe she should be thinking of these things as ‘her problem’ - the way she has been for far too long, but she doesn’t and she won’t.

 

Not anymore.

 

When Pod had finished, looking at her expectantly as though she was going to give him his marching orders - or at the very least tell him what in the bloody hells they were going to do to fix this mess, Brienne had just looked at him a moment and then smiled.

 

“I’m going to quit,” she’d stated plainly.

 

And instead of being horrified or angry or disappointed or whatever else she had imagined Pod’s reaction to be, he had breathed an audible sigh of relief.

 

“Thank the gods,” he’d said, “when do we leave?”

 

“We?” Brienne repeated, just to make sure she’d heard him right.

 

“Well yeah, you think I’m sticking around without you? Two days was more than enough thanks, and besides,” he said, “you’re the best boss I’ve ever had, you go, I go.”

 

Brienne had hugged him.

 

“You know I can’t offer you anything - I’m not exactly leaving this job for a better one.”

 

“I know, but right about now I’d take anything but this,” he’d said and then his face split into a wide grin. “And at least this way Mrs eat my balls for breakfast won’t have the satisfaction of firing us.”

 

“Cersei was going to fire me?”

 

“And me,” Pod nods. “Either way we would be out of work.”

 

It’s not as if that particular bit of information was much of a surprise, and Brienne had felt a cool sense of satisfaction when she’d realized she didn’t care.

 

And she doesn’t, she really doesn’t.

 

No matter how many times she’d threatened to quit over the last few years, it had always been her sense of duty that had held her back - that and Jaime was far too persuasive for his own good. For her own good, come to think of it. This time there’s nothing in her way.

 

Just as her thoughts wander towards Jaime, and his suspicious silence, her mobile buzzes in her pocket and Brienne pulls it out to find a new message.

 

_ my lovely wench - my cabin asap? i imagine you’ll probably want to quit your job this morning and the sooner we can get through the business of that, the sooner i can bend you over the nearest available surface and fuck you senseless. _

 

Her mobile buzzes as a second message pops up underneath the first.

 

_ if you want. just saying. missed you. xo _

 

Brienne rolls her eyes at this, even as her belly leaps with excitement.

 

_ Me too. Very much. Now? _

 

Jaime responds immediately.

 

_ yes please. _

 

And then -

 

_ i should have also mentioned somewhere in there i plan to apologize for being an arse (see i do know a thing or two about being decent) but apparently my priorities are a little skewed. come soon. _

 

Brienne laughs.

 

_ I will. I’m sure you’ll find a way to combine the fucking and the apologizing. _

 

_ i’d love to ;) _

 

She slips her mobile back into her pocket and changes course heading towards Jaime’s cabin. If he wants to spend the next few hours showing her how sorry he is then who is she to complain.

 

-

 

Sansa is ready to leave.

 

Freshly washed and dressed, with her bag packed and her belly full of coffee and breakfast, she had said goodbye to Margaery and Dany - exchanging numbers with the promise to meet again over the summer - and left the cabin to catch the shuttle that would take her to the island’s small airstrip.

 

She’s ready to go home - not that she would ever call King’s Landing home, but she’s had enough of the tropics. She’s had enough sunshine on her skin and sand between her toes. She’s ready to be around some familiar faces, to sleep in her own bed, to put some of her recent ideas into action.

 

Sansa can’t wait to go home, to really go home to Winterfell, but for now, her little flat in Kings Landing, where Lady and Arya are waiting will be good enough.

 

She’s just passing the last of the guest cabins when she sees someone on the path ahead - it’s Brienne, the director and Sansa calls out to her, stopping her on the path.

 

“Sansa!” Brienne says, “I had meant to come see you this morning, but I’ve got a meeting with my boss.”

 

“Oh? Is there something wrong?”

 

“No - well, depends on who you ask. I hope you won’t be too disappointed,” Brienne tells her, “they won’t be using any of the footage from your filming this week.”

 

Sansa feels a sudden and rather surprising sense of relief at this. If they weren’t going to use anything they had filmed, that meant there wasn’t going to be an episode and that meant she would never appear naked on television.

 

She doesn’t regret a single thing about her adventure on the Summer Isles - nothing perhaps other than forgetting to get Sandor’s mobile number - but maybe it’s better like this, to let what happened on the island stay on the island.

 

Just maybe not everything.

 

“That’s probably for the best,” she laughs, “I’m happy I did it - but this way I’ll never have to worry about what my parents are going to think, you know?”

 

“Yes,” Brienne says “I hope you’re alright after everything that happened - I suspect it wasn’t really what you had been hoping for.”

 

Sansa considers this a moment - what had she been hoping for? A chance to let her spirit free for a few days? An opportunity to make a one of a kind connection with someone? She had experienced all of that.

 

Now that she’s reached the end of her time here, the ordeal with Joffrey Baratheon seems like hardly anything at all. And anyway - it would make for one marvellous story.

 

“Maybe not, but I enjoyed myself.”

 

“Good,” Brienne smiles, “still I am sorry I wasn’t there - it was my job to look out for you and the other girls.”

 

“Pod did very well. He told us you were filming off the island - how did it go?”

 

Brienne’s whole demeanour seems to change at this, the serious line of her face softens and her eyes light with excitement.

 

“It was great,” she says, “I’m hoping for a little more of that kind of work, a little less of the reality tv.”

 

Sansa doesn’t know the specifics of her other job, but she can’t blame Brienne for wanting to branch out from following naked fools through the jungle.

 

“Are you leaving the show?”

 

“I’m trying to at least - I’ve been meaning to quit for a while now, but the Lannisters, they’re a hard bunch to walk away from.”

 

Sansa’s heart skips half a beat as she thinks of Sandor. If it had been hard for Brienne, a director who only worked for their media company, she couldn’t imagine how difficult it would be for him to cut ties.

 

“Good luck then,” she says, and she means it. There’s something she likes about Brienne.

 

“Thanks - I might need it.”

 

“I’m sure you’ll be fine,” Sansa assures her, “you might have been filming trash tv, but it’s obvious to anyone you know what you’re doing.”

 

“I hope so,” Brienne says with a little frown.

 

It’s then the idea comes to her and Sansa unzips the side pocket of her bag to pull out her mobile.

 

“You know what,” she says brightly, “you could always email my mother. They’re always looking for talented people and I can let her know to expect you. Catelyn Stark - she’s the director at the WFB.”

 

Brienne is stunned - or at least it seems so, because she’s silent a moment, standing stock still staring at Sansa’s mobile where she holds it out between them.

 

“You would do that?” Brienne asks uncertainly, her eyes shining bright and blue.

 

“Of course, I think she’ll like you - I think you’d like working for her too,” Sansa says.

 

It’s not something she does often, if ever, but she’s got a good feeling about this and if she can help Brienne get away from the Lannisters and Casterly Rock TV then she’ll do what she can.

 

Brienne copies Catelyn Stark’s email, and thanks Sansa again so sincerely she looks as though she’s about to cry.

 

She doesn’t though - and after she says goodbye, reminding Sansa that she has a flight to catch, she disappears up the path and into the jungle.

 

Before Sansa puts her mobile back into her bag, she makes a note to remind herself to call her mother.

 

If she was going home for the summer after all, maybe she could reconsider that internship at the film board too.

 

-

 

Brienne feels a kind of optimism she hasn’t in a long while.

 

She had been prepared, if need be, to get any kind of job when she was back on the mainland, hells she would deliver Pentoshi takeout even if it meant she wouldn’t have to work for the Casterly Rock network again.

 

But a chance to meet with Catelyn Stark - that’s something that could change her whole career.

There’s nothing guaranteed, nothing for sure, but even the thought of this new and rather miraculous opportunity is enough to fill Brienne with hope.

 

She’s at Jaime’s cabin in just a few minutes, and maybe it’s because her mind is drifting towards just how much Jaime is going to like to hear about what she had done with the gift he had left her - Brienne doesn’t notice the woman right away.

 

She’s curled elegantly into one of the wooden deckchairs as though it were a throne, a glass of what could be wine in one hand and her mobile in the other. She doesn’t take any notice of Brienne either - her focus is entirely on her phone, long manicured nails tapping away at the screen.

 

“What do you want?” she asks without lifting her eyes. Her tone is cold and haughty and it catches Brienne off guard.

 

Now that she’s looking at her - now that Brienne is paying attention and not daydreaming about getting into Jaime’s pants it occurs to her suddenly just who this is.

 

She knows a lioness when she sees one.

 

So this is Cersei. In the flesh, polished and golden and beautiful and so alike Jaime, Brienne is suddenly struck at just what a perfect match they must have made together.

 

She’s not jealous - not when she knows how much pain this woman has caused Jaime, and she’s old enough to know better than to bother comparing herself to other women, but this is the last woman Jaime had in his bed. She can’t help but feel a little inadequate.

 

She brushes the thought away and puts on her very best ‘I don’t have time for your bullshit face’. If there’s anything she’s learned during her time on the island it’s how to deal with drunks idiots and assholes - there’s not much this woman can throw at her she can’t take.

 

“I’m here to see Jaime.”

 

Cersei raises one perfectly arched brow.

 

“Not right now you’re not.”

 

“Is he not here?” Brienne asks, doing her very best not to roll her eyes. This woman was obviously used to getting anything and everything she wanted.

 

“That’s none of your business,” Cersei says cooly.

 

And it doesn’t bother her - not really, but Brienne feels a flush begin to creep hot and unwelcome up her neck as Cersei’s sharp green eyes look her over.

 

“I have an appointment,” she says - it’s not exactly the truth, but Cersei doesn’t need to know the details of that appointment include a whole lot of mind blowing sex.

 

Cersei leans forwards in her chair to set down her glass on the table and her hair tumbles forward over her shoulder, shining in the sun.

 

“You’re the one he calls ‘wench’ aren’t you,” she says, a small smile ghosting her pink lips, “of course you must be. He’s mentioned you - uglier than the backside of an aurochs and twice as stubborn? A little harsh, but I can see what he was getting at.”

 

Brienne swallows hard, and she feels her hands curl into fists at her sides. This woman isn’t saying anything she hasn’t heard before, but knowing it came from Jaime, it stings a little more than she would like.

 

But it wasn’t as if she hadn’t said worse about him, back when he had been a thorn in her side and they had barely tolerated each other.

 

Bygones, she thinks - it doesn’t matter now.

 

“Right,” Brienne shrugs, crossing the porch to the door, “well I still need to talk to Jaime.”

 

“He called you over here to fire you,” Cersei says icily, clearly annoyed with Brienne’s lack of reaction to her obvious barb.

 

“Funny, because I came over here to quit.”

 

“Oh, I’m sure.”

 

“What’s going on out here?”

 

“Jaime,” Brienne says brightly. The sight of him is almost enough to put this entire unpleasant conversation out of her mind.

 

He’s standing in the open doorway, his hair is wet and there’s a towel slung around his hips as though he’s come straight from the shower.

 

“Hello, wench,” he says with one of those entrancing little half smiles that makes her feel like she’s been clubbed over the head. The warmth in his eyes is all but doused when he turns to Cersei. “Come on, I thought I told you to piss off, not hang around on the porch being a miserable hag to my - ”

 

Jaime pauses there, catching Brienne’s eye and smiling again, suddenly sheepish. He’s not ashamed, she knows, he just doesn’t have words for what exactly they are to each other now, new as this is.

 

“Your what, Jaime?” Cersei says, standing slowly and glaring at Brienne. “You’re kidding right? Her? You said you were seeing someone now, but her?”

 

“Yes,” Jaime states, “her. Now please will you go away, Brienne and I need to talk.”

 

With a humourless laugh, Cersei crosses the porch to the steps, turning to glare at them, her face a mixture of pity and revulsion.

 

“Are you trying to punish yourself, Jaime? You lost your hand, not your mind - is this what you think you deserve now?”

 

Brienne looks away at this, away from Jaime and down at her feet, hiding the hot flush that stings her cheeks.

 

“No, I don’t deserve her,” Jaime says without hesitation, and Brienne doesn’t see the way his gaze flickers away from Cersei towards her, as though he’s trying to catch her eye. “And who knows if I’ll ever be worthy, but I’m happy to spend my life trying.”

 

Brienne feels her belly swoop at this, and her head snaps up in surprise. When she looks at him, Jaime gives her a little smile, as if to confirm what he said as true.

 

Cersei on the other hand looks as though she’s chewing a mouthful of gravel, and she makes a huff of disgust.

 

“You used to be so much better than this, Jaime,” she says bitterly as she takes the stairs down to the jungle pathway.

 

“Piss off,” he calls in singsong a sort of voice that has Brienne stifling a laugh. “And don’t come back.”

 

Cersei doesn’t thank the gods, and as she disappears into the trees, a silence settles over them, not awkward but not altogether comfortable either.

 

There’s something hanging in the air - a kind of anticipation Brienne can almost taste and she clears her throat, offering Jaime a tentative smile.

 

“So that was…. unpleasant.”

 

“You don’t know the half of it,” Jaime agrees, with a long suffering sigh. “I’m sorry though - for all of that, she’s jealous. She doesn’t want me anymore, but no one else can have me, you know?”

 

Brienne nods.

 

“And the part about you spending your life attempting to be worthy of me?”

 

“All true,” Jaime says, grinning at her. “I’m going to need lots of help. Lots of hands on coaching.”

 

He holds out his hand to her, and she takes it - following him inside.

 

“I think I’d be fine with that,” she says, and then a second later, he’s kissing her, his fingers locked with hers, his arm around her waist.

 

“If you’ve just quit, does this mean we can jump straight to sex and apologies?” He asks, pulling back just far enough so that he can press his forehead against hers.

 

“It was on the agenda,” Brienne laughs, letting her hands wander. She loves the feel of him - his skin, smooth and warm, the golden hair on his hard chest, his thumping heart just underneath, the way his belly tenses as her fingertips skitter towards the towel around his waist.

 

“Well then, wench, take off your clothes - I have a considerable head start and I insist you must catch up.”

 

He’s grinning at her again, and she kisses him, partly because oh she wants to and partly because no one on the planet should be allowed to look quite so enticing.

 

“You’re not my boss anymore, I don’t have to listen to you.”

 

“No,” he muses as he moves his mouth down her throat, “but you will.”

 

“Only because that might be the one and only request you’ve made in the entire time I’ve worked for you that I actually want to follow.”

 

Jaime laughs, pulling at her tshirt, just as he backs her up against the closed door.

 

“Good,” he says, “then get on with it.”

 

-

 

Sansa takes a seat on the far side of the airport lounge next to a bank of windows that look out onto nothing but an open field.

 

The waiting area is busy. Mostly young people from the retreat, hungover and half dead, waiting for their flight back to real life on the mainland.

 

She drops her bag onto the floor by her seat and just as she pulls her book from an outside pocket, the seat on her other side gives a little creak as a man sits down next to her.

 

There are plenty of other available seats in the waiting area, and she can’t help but feel a little prickle of annoyance he’s chosen to sit right next to her. All the same Sansa offers him a polite smile.

 

By the look of his neat business casual clothing and the laptop case at his feet, he doesn’t seem as though he’s spent the week partying.

 

Either that or he’s good at hiding a hangover, she thinks.

 

He’s also short, Sansa notices, really, really short, and she can’t help but study at him curiously out of the corner of her eye.

 

“I don’t mean to crowd you,” he says, “but I’d rather prefer not to be vomited on this morning.”

 

The man nods towards the other passengers and as if on cue, one of the boys, already looking green and sickly, clutches his guts and groans.

 

“I don’t blame you,” Sansa says. “it’s fine.”

 

She returns her attention to the book on her lap, filing through the pages until she comes to the place where the soft blue feather is waiting to mark her place.

 

“I take it from your lack of obvious hangover, you weren’t here for a CRTV event?”

 

“I was actually,” Sansa says, “I just know how to control myself.”

The man laughs, “so there are still some of us blessed with the gift of temperance. I’d heard tell it was true but I had yet to see it with my own eyes.”

 

Sansa closes her book momentarily to look at him, and finds him watching her.

 

“Perhaps you should find better friends then,” she suggests.

 

“If only I had any. No, I’ve been spending far too much time with my sister lately, though strictly out of a professional necessity, gods know for no other reason,” he says and when Sansa gives a subtle raise of her brow in question, he adds, “I’m a lawyer. And she’s a - well, I won’t say what she is. You and I have only just met and I wouldn’t want to make a first impression with that kind of language.”

 

Sansa smiles at this - he’s witty, she thinks, funny - and it wouldn’t hurt to have some company right now, especially if the company comes with decent conversation.

 

He holds out a hand to her, and Sansa takes it as he introduces himself.

 

“Tyrion, and you?”

 

“Sansa.”

 

“Ah.”

 

“Do we know each other?” she asks, doing her best not to sound rude. It’s a bit of a stretch - she knows without a doubt if they had met before she would have remembered him.

 

Tyrion looks for a moment as though he might be disappointed but when he speaks, his tone is more apologetic than anything.

 

“No, but I believe you became somewhat intimately acquainted with my nephew this week - and rather unfortunately got a little hint of the true form my sister takes when she’s not wearing her human skin,” he sighs. “I extend my full apologies for any… discomfort you might have experienced.”

 

“Oh, that’s alright,” Sansa says, “it wasn’t all bad.”

 

“I’m glad to hear it,” Tyrion says, and then leans in close to her across the armrest between their seats. In a near whisper he asks, “it wasn’t you who sabotaged Joffrey’s saddle, was it?”

 

“Not me,” she says, shaking her head.

 

“But you know who did.”

 

“I do, but I won’t tell you who - was it quite awful for him?”

 

“Terribly, and it was about time too,” Tyrion says resolutely.

 

The call for boarding comes then, crackling through the speaker over their heads.

 

Sansa immediately closes her book, carefully tucking the feather back into place, and she leans forward to slide it back into her bag. As she does so, the dogtags around her neck slip out from under her shirt, falling forwards and clanking together on the chain. When she rights herself, taking her bag in hand and standing from her seat, she tucks them away again.

 

Tyrion is watching her curiously, but he says nothing. He hops down from his seat and picks up his bag, following Sansa to join the queue of people waiting to board their flight.

 

The woman at the gate checks their tickets and they pass through the doors that lead out onto the tarmac.

 

There’s a strong wind outside that pulls at Sansa’s hair, whipping it around her face and she smooths it out of the way, walking swiftly towards the small aircraft. Tyrion moves quickly to catch up to her.

 

“Where are you seated?” he asks, raising his voice over the wind.

 

Sansa looks at her ticket - “11A” she says and Tyrion smiles.

 

“Excellent,” he says, “I’m 11B, we’re together.”

 

All in all, it could be worse, Sansa thinks as she hears the far off sound of someone retching into a paper bag about halfway through the flight. Flying makes her uneasy at the best of times, she can’t imagine doing it hungover.

 

And Tyrion isn’t so bad - he’s decent company, and he keeps her entertained throughout the flight, even if she had planned for a couple quiet hours with her book.

 

They spend a great deal of the flight in pleasant conversation, and by the time the pilot announces their descent into King’s Landing, she isn’t surprised when Tyrion hands her a business card with a mobile number written on the back.

 

“This is for you - to use at your earliest convenience.”

 

“Oh,” Sansa says, feeling herself blush as she takes the card. “I’m actually kind of seeing someone, but thank you.”

 

That’s not exactly the truth, but she doesn’t know what else to say. Neither she nor Sandor made any promises, and hells as far as she knows he might never want to see her again, and even if that’s the case, it’ll be a little while before she gets over this.

 

It might have been a few days, a few wild and wonderful days, but Sansa feels as though her heart has spoken and she’s still not ready to give up on him.

 

Sansa’s gaze drifts out of the small oval window and fixes on the little squares and dots of the city below, wondering where in the world Sandor could be.

 

Would she ever find him again?

 

Her hand rises absently to her throat, fingers curling around the chain, pulling the tags into her palm and holding tight.

 

“Is he a soldier?”

 

“Yeah,” Sansa nods, turning back to Tyrion, “he was.”

 

“You must mean a great deal to him if he gave those to you.”

 

If I meant so much, Sansa wonders, why did he leave?

 

“Listen,” Tyrion says kindly, “take my card anyway. If things don’t work out between the two of you, maybe you could remember my exceptional conversation skills and charming smile and give me a shot instead? At the very least, you’ll always have someone to call if you’re ever in legal trouble.”

 

Sansa laughs at this.

 

“Alright,” she agrees, tucking the card into her bag. “I hope I’ll never need it.”

 

“Ouch,” Tyrion hisses.

 

“Your conditions were heartbreak or catastrophe.”

 

“True,” he laughs, “maybe I should work on my game.”

 

And even if he did, Sansa thinks, just as the plane smoothly touches down onto the runway at Kings International, it wouldn’t matter. He’s not Sandor. 

 

-

 

Sandor is angry with himself.

 

On a scale of one to the stupidest things he’s ever done, it ranks pretty high - it’s nowhere near the worst, but gods does he hate himself for it.

 

And you would think, being someone who has had their share of shit and miserable buggering happenstances, the feeling should be pretty easy to shake.

 

It isn’t.

 

At first light, he had left Sansa’s cabin.

 

It had taken some serious effort to drag himself from her bed, his body had practically screamed at him not to do it - to stay there, wrapped up with her forever, damn whatever was coming for him. Yet by some power unbeknownst to him, he had managed to do it, not before leaving one last kiss on the soft creamy skin of her bare shoulder.

 

And like some romantic fool, he had left his dogtags too.

 

So she would have something to look back on - something to remember him by, even when he knew what she needed to do now was forget him.

 

Rationally, he knows it’s best for both of them, but damn if the thought of it doesn’t make his chest feel tight.

 

He doesn’t want her to forget him.

 

And that’s why he’d left those buggering dogtags.

 

He had barged into her room last night like a drunken madman and still Sansa had accepted him and taken him into her bed. She had opened herself to him, let him kiss her and touch her and gods be good, she was sublime.

 

He barely had a clue what he was doing, but a natural fighter, picking up on the physical cues of his opponent was second nature. In this case though, Sandor had fixed his senses on every indication of her pleasure rather than pain.

 

The image of her, spread open for him, petal pink, and dripping wet - smelling rich and musky and tasting of honey soaked fucking heaven - that was something he would never forget.

 

And he would never forget what had come after either. When she had lain with him in the dark, yet another thing he had never done before, held him close and wrapped her soft body around him so that her face was pressed right up against his thudding heart.

 

Her kindness, her acceptance - that sweet unyielding hope she carried with her, it made his chest hurt, his heart ache in a way it had never done so before.

 

Even before Sansa had fallen asleep he had known he was going to leave.

 

He wouldn’t lie to her - and when she had asked what was going to happen now, he had told her the truth as best as he had known it.

 

He would leave her, Sandor knew that part, but what would come after, when Tyrion’s plan was put into action and he had made the first steps to becoming a free man, he had no idea.

 

One thing was for sure though. He was no good for her.

 

And maybe, when she woke up to find him gone she would do the sensible thing and tell herself he was just some stupid arse out to catch a little tail. And maybe it would hurt her for a little while, but she would get over it, and it would be so much better - a much more minor hurt than the one he would surely cause her if they tried to make this work in the real world.

 

Sandor leans against the hard cinder blocks at his back.

 

Tyrion had walked him through this - he had known it was coming. Step one, go back to King’s Landing and turn yourself in. Step two, hurry up and wait.

 

A little of the late afternoon sunlight filters through the high barred window, casting a long orange stripe on the concrete floor and across his boots. When he had arrived, that stripe of light had been somewhere on the opposite wall.

 

It’s been hours - hours of sitting in silence, and though Sandor had expected this, though once upon a time ago he had been a soldier and had waited through longer and more grueling hours than these, it doesn’t make it any better.

 

It’s not as if he’s bored either, no it’s that he’s had enough time to realize what a complete and total buggering fool he was.

 

A fool and a coward after all.

 

Sansa was the sweetest fucking thing he’s ever known, and he knows down to his bones that’s it for him. She was his one chance and he’s blown it.

 

Sandor sits up straighter then, suddenly alert at the sound of jangling keys down the empty hallway.

 

A guard stops outside the cell door.

 

“Mr Clegane,” the officer says, “they’re ready to speak to you now.”

 

Sandor is on his feet immediately and through the door.

 

He takes a second to focus his thoughts - to remember everything Tyrion had told him and to prepare himself for the questions that would come.

 

The officer leads him to a drab grey room, where and even drabber, greyer detective is waiting.

 

Maybe if he could just harness a little of that hope Sansa was so full of, he could come through this alright. Maybe for once in his life things could come out on the upside of shit and hellfire.

 

Let this be the beginning of something good.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks again for sticking with me <3 (and yeah i kinda threw cersei under the bus here, but i needed a villain)


End file.
